


Schism

by arabis



Series: Signature [3]
Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Allspark Sam Witwicky, Anal Sex, Caning, Canon-Typical Violence, Charlotte Mearing is Charlie Watson, Dirty Talk, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous sex, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Makeup Sex, Minor Character Death, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Prime Sam Witwicky, Torture, Violence, forced stripping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:48:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 158,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23740351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabis/pseuds/arabis
Summary: Schism- noun: a split or division between strongly opposed sections or parties, caused by differences in opinion or belief.As a faction of Decepticons led by Starscream plots with the Autobots to overthrow Megatron, a new enemy makes itself known. Still recovering from his ordeal onboard theNemesis, Sam will find himself at the center of a four-faction war.
Relationships: Bumblebee & Charlie Watson, Bumblebee/Sam Witwicky, Jazz/Prowl, Ratchet & Sam Witwicky
Series: Signature [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560772
Comments: 1976
Kudos: 596





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note** : Welcome everyone to the third instillation of the Signature series. Thank-you so much for everyone's encouragement and support. You guys are the best!
> 
>  **FRIENDLY WARNING:** I answer a lot of questions in the comments, and that includes some major spoilers. Read with caution.

Sam regained consciousness in fits and starts. It was an exhausting process, and by the time that he managed to squint open his eyes, he was trembling from the strain. Immediately, his eyes watered in the bright light. He made a soft sound of distress, and a blurry, red shape moved into his field of vision. Despair and hopelessness washed over him like a tidal wave, and he was distantly aware of the way that his heart was jackrabbiting in his chest.

“How long?” He rasped, fearful of the answer but desperate to know.

There was a pregnant pause, and then a familiar voice chirped soothingly at him, “You’re alright Sam. You’re safe.”

Sam squinted in confusion—that wasn’t Knock Out’s voice. Slowly, his vision cleared and First Aid’s face came into focus. The red and white mechanoid had anxious tension in every line of his frame. Sam stared at the field medic for a long moment, before realization dawned on him. He wasn’t on board the _Nemesis_ , he was in Ratchet’s medical bay. Sam went limp in relief, and he squeezed his eyes closed as he exhaled a shaky sigh.

“Back with us?” Ratchet asked gruffly.

It took a moment before Sam could muster the energy to open his eyes again. Ratchet stood beside First Aid, his arms folded over his chest and a closed-off expression on his face.

“Yeah.” Sam managed, and it was only then that he realized that he had an oxygen mask affixed over his nose and mouth. He groaned softly and raised a hand to touch the soft silicone, but Ratchet intercepted him.

“Leave it.” He commanded, lowering Sam’s hand back to the mattress, and Sam did not have the energy to protest, “How do you feel?”

Sam stared blearily at the CMO as he considered his response. He felt exhausted in a full-bodied way that he had never experienced before, not even after on-lining as a newspark. He was weak and shaky, and his muscles trembled and spasmed uncomfortably.

“Pretty rough.” Sam admitted eventually, his breath clouding the oxygen mask.

Ratchet regarded him for a long moment, and then a familiar blue light emanated from his optics. The scan swept Sam from head to toe, and the medic’s mouthplates turned down in a frown.

“Your vitals are concerning, but stable. Try to get some rest, I will be here when you wake.”

Anxiety pooled in Sam’s stomach at the grim edge to Ratchet’s voice.

“What do you mean concerning?” He rasped.

Ratchet’s optics spiraled down to narrow points and his mouthplates tightened minutely. The expression made him appear even more no-nonsense and ill-tempered than usual but, to Sam’s surprise, the medic answered his question.

“Your blood pressure is sitting at 72 over 57. You have tachycardia, with a heart rate of 120 beats per minute, and both your glucose and electrolyte levels are well below normal. If I wasn’t looking at you, I would assume that you were bleeding out.”

“Oh.” Sam replied unintelligibly.

“Oh.” Ratchet agreed, “Try to get some rest, we will re-assess your condition in two hours.”

Sam nodded faintly, settling back against the mattress. First Aid stepped away from the gurney with a soft chirp, before making his way across the medical bay. Ratchet looked down at him for a moment longer, his expression and his mental presence equally inscrutable. As the medic made to move away, however, a thought occurred to Sam and he made a desperate noise in the back of his throat. Ratchet’s helm snapped back in Sam’s direction.

“Where’s Bumblebee?” Sam managed, trying to push up onto his elbows. Ratchet made a sharp sound in admonishment as his holoform appeared at Sam’s bedside, pushing him down onto the mattress.

“Don’t try to move, you little idiot.” He groused, but Sam could feel his stark concern across their bond, “Bumblebee and Prime are with Prowl and Jazz in the mausoleum.”

Sam winced his eyes closed, and Ratchet’s grip on his shoulders gentled. The holoform stroked his thumbs across Sam’s skin, an uncharacteristically soothing touch. Sam turned his attention inwards, and with a great deal of effort, was able to find the winter-white glow resting at the edge of his mind. He brushed against it, weak and uncoordinated, and in an instant, Bumblebee’s presence was in his mind.

“So that really happened, then?” Sam rasped, leaning into Bumblebee’s warm glow in relief.

“If you are asking whether you resurrected our Second-in-Command, then yes.” Ratchet replied dryly.

“That’s one way to pay it forward, I guess.”

Ratchet ex-vented a snort, but Sam could feel his cautious optimism through their connection. The holoform stepped away from the gurney and disappeared, but Ratchet did not move from where he stood staring down at Sam.

“There will be time to discuss what happened after you have recovered. Now go to sleep or I’ll put you to sleep, this is my only warning.”

Sam quirked a wan smile in the medic’s direction. “Thanks Ratch.”

Ratchet stayed nearby as Sam pulled the blankets up to his chest and curled onto his side. Although he doubted whether he would be able to fall asleep, his body had other ideas. His eyes fluttered shut and he drifted off within moments. He slept deeply, completely undisturbed by the bustle of the medical bay. When he eventually struggled back to consciousness, like a swimmer clawing up from the depths of dark water, it was to the feeling of fingers carding through his hair. Sam squinted open his eyes to find Bumblebee’s holoform on the gurney beside him. When he realized that Sam was awake, Bumblebee smiled at him affectionately. His hand slid down to cup the side of Sam's face, his thumb stroking across his cheek.

“Hey Bee." Sam murmured, his voice hoarse from sleep, “How long was I out?”

Bumblebee’s brow furrowed slightly, “A little over six hours. It’s just after eight o’clock in the morning.”

Before Sam could reply, he heard the sound of heavy footsteps. A moment later, the familiar tingle of a medical scan prickled across his skin. Sam lifted his head and glanced over his shoulder to see Ratchet standing at his bedside once again.

“Well?” Sam asked.

“Your vitals are improving.” Ratchet replied enigmatically, “How do you feel?”

“I've never felt so tired in my life.” Sam said, “I'm less shaky though.”

Ratchet nodded minutely, and then he stepped forward to switch out the bag of saline that hung on a rack beside the gurney. The new bag was larger, and the fluids within were tinged yellow. It was only then that Sam realized that an IV had been placed while he slept. The cannula was taped to the back of his right hand, and the tubing extended over the side of the bed. He frowned at it, before looking back at Ratchet.

“What is that?”

“A rally pack.” The medic replied succinctly, “Magnesium sulfate and thiamine to help with the muscle cramps, and glucose for your hypoglycemia.” 

Sam nodded faintly, but he did not reply. Instead, he settled back against the mattress and tucked his face into Bumblebee’s chest. Although the oxygen mask cut uncomfortably into the skin of Sam’s cheeks and nose, he wanted the closeness that the position provided. As though sensing his thoughts, Bumblebee continued combing his fingers through Sam’s hair. Sam let his eyes drift closed, and they laid like that until he fell asleep again only minutes later.

When Sam next awoke, it was to a feeling of intense physical discomfort. He groaned and pushed himself up into a sitting position, pulling the oxygen mask off his face and dropping it onto the bed. Bumblebee’s holoform was nowhere to be seen, but Hoist and First Aid were standing halfway down the hangar. The medical bay was quiet, the lights dimmed to their lowest setting. As soon as Sam sat up, Hoist turned to look in his direction.

“How are you feeling?” The medic asked, striding towards him.

“I have to use the bathroom.” Sam replied, too uncomfortable to be embarrassed about it.

Hoist nodded, glancing at the bag of intravenous fluids that hung at his bedside. “That is understandable. Let me disconnect your IV, and then I will take you over.”

Once the tubing was disconnected from the cannula, Sam pushed the blankets off his body and climbed unsteadily to his feet. Hoist carried him across the hangar, tucked close to his chassis, and then set Sam down in front of the human-sized door near Ratchet’s workbench. He lowered into a loose crouch, his expression uncharacteristically solemn.

“I will be right here. Do not hesitate to call out for assistance if you need me.”

Sam felt oddly discomforted by the medic’s concern, and instead of replying, he made his way into the bathroom. He relieved himself as quickly as possible, and then washed his hands. He stared at the running water for a moment, before ducking his head beneath the faucet and drinking deeply. The water was cool and metallic tasting, like all of the water on base. Eventually, Sam straightened up and turned around, leaning against the bathroom counter. As he stood there, the full enormity of all that had happened suddenly hit him. The Matrix of Leadership. Jazz. His strange dreams. Sam’s breath started coming faster as a chill born of adrenaline spread goosebumps over his arms. He grasped the edge of the counter with both hands, steadying himself. His grip was so tight that the tendons in his arms ached with the strain.

“Sam?” Hoist asked through the door, his voice muffled and worried.

“I’m fine.” Sam managed, squeezing his eyes closed, “I just need a minute.”

Sam’s breath grew shallower as he recalled the words of the Primes, strange and prophetic. _We have been watching you for a long, long time._ At the time, their words had not made sense, but now Sam thought that he understood. At least somewhat.

“Fuck.” Sam whispered to himself through numb lips, “ _Fuck.”_

Ratchet’s presence brightened across their bond, stark and concerned. Sam found himself tucked close to the medic’s spark as reassurance rolled over him in waves, and a moment later, warm hands grasped his shoulders. His eyes snapped open to find Ratchet’s holoform standing in front of him, its expression one of quiet scrutiny.

“Ratch.” Sam managed, gesturing helplessly with one hand, “Why is this happening to me?”

Ratchet’s expression softened in understanding, and he pulled Sam into an embrace. The medic’s mental presence was gruff, almost hesitant, but his touch was steady and solid.

“I don’t know.” He admitted at last, as sincere as Sam had ever heard him, “I’m sorry, Sam.”

Ratchet gave him a squeeze, and Sam sighed softly. He stood there for a long moment, his forehead pressed into the holoform’s shoulder. It was quiet except for the soft sound of Sam’s breathing, which eventually evened out. Ratchet stepped away and held him at arms-length, his gaze roving over Sam’s face. His expression was clinical and no-nonsense.

“Are you ready to go back?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Sam replied. Ratchet nodded, and then his holoform disappeared. The medic’s mental presence remained unwaveringly close, and Sam nudged against him appreciatively before making his way out of the bathroom. Ratchet and Hoist were standing a short distance away, and both medical-builds watched him as he made his way into the hangar. Their expressions were mirror images of professional concern.

“Can you stop looking at me like I’m about to drop dead?” Sam asked, an edge to his tone, “I’m reasonably sure that’s not about to happen.”

Ratchet looked unaffected by his tone, but Hoist inclined his helm in chagrin.

“My apologies, Sam.”

Ratchet ex-vented a snort, before crouching down and extending a servo towards him. Sam understood what the medic wanted, and he climbed into the proffered palm on wobbly legs. A moment later, Ratchet deposited him directly onto the gurney. Sam shifted back on the mattress, watching as Ratchet reattached the tubing to his IV, and then he pulled the blankets up to his hips.

“How long do I have to stay here?” Sam asked, and Ratchet glanced at him as he retrieved the oxygen mask from the mattress. He coiled the tubing and then hung the apparatus on the machine behind the gurney.

“Your vitals are improving, but they are not where I would like them.” Ratchet said, “You should eat something. Do you feel up to it?”

“Yeah, I guess.” He replied, before a smile slowly spread across his face, “What does the maître d' recommend?”

Ratchet tilted his head in a manner that suggested he was researching the phrase, and then his expression noticeably cooled, “You’ll be eating the BRAT diet until I decide otherwise.”

“Is that a dig at me?” Sam asked, pulling the blanket higher up his bare chest.

“It is what it is.” Ratchet replied shortly.

“BRAT is an acronym. It stands for bananas, rice, applesauce, and toast. It refers to a diet of food that is easy on the stomach.” Hoist replied, restrained amusement in his voice.

“That explains a lot.” Sam said dryly, remembering the many bland meals that he had eaten while under Ratchet’s care. The CMO snorted at him.

“Bumblebee will bring your meal when he returns from patrol. If you can manage it, rest quietly until then.”

The following hour passed by slowly. Sam laid on the gurney, staring up at the ceiling, until Bumblebee returned with his meal. He picked away at the food, working through the tray, with the holoform settled on the mattress beside him. Bumblebee watched him eat in silence, but _sensation_ and _feeling_ passed through their bond almost too quickly for Sam to process. There was warmth and affection, which Sam understood and reciprocated, but there was also a strange sense of _anticipation_ and _vigilance_ that confused him.

As Sam pulled the lid off a cup of yogurt, he quirked an eyebrow in Bumblebee’s direction. The holoform returned his gaze with a faint smile.

“It’s nothing, Sam. My guardian protocols are running hot.”

Sam frowned, spoon in his mouth.

“I’m fine, Bumblebee. Just a little tired.”

“I know. Don’t mind me, eat your food.”

Sam glanced back down at the yogurt cup and then back to the holoform’s face.

“I will. Peach is my favorite.”

Bumblebee smiled, and the skin around his eyes crinkled with amusement.

“I know.”

The tone of his voice implied that the fact was self-evident. Sam looked at him as he spooned more yogurt into his mouth, and asked, deadpan, “Keeping tabs on me, old man?”

Bumblebee’s eyebrows rose up to his hairline as he repeated, incredulously, “ _Old man?”_

The disbelief in his voice made Sam begin to laugh, and once he started, he found that he couldn’t stop. He sat there, holding a spoon in one hand and his yogurt cup in the other, and laughed until he had tears in his eyes. Bumblebee’s expression morphed from disbelief to exasperation to amusement in a steady procession. When Sam had stopped laughing long enough to get a drink, Bumblebee replied wryly, “I’m not old. _Ratchet’s_ old. Kup’s ancient. I’m in the prime of my youth.”

“Watch your vocalizer, bitlet.” Hoist called dryly across the hangar from where he stood beside Ratchet at the workbench, “Or Ratchet will deactivate it.”

Sam could feel Ratchet’s _exasperation-bordering-on-irritation_ , but the medic did not engage in their banter. Instead, he remained focused on the piece of equipment that he was working on. Sam huffed another laugh and ate the rest of his yogurt in silence.

Shortly after his lunch, First Aid and Knock Out made their way into the medical bay. First Aid was talking animatedly in Cybertronian, his voice bright and good-natured. Knock Out was unusually subdued, and as soon as he stepped into the hangar, his optics flicked in Sam’s direction. The medic stared at him for a long moment, his expression inscrutable but intense, before he followed First Aid to the floor-to-ceiling cabinets along the far wall. Sam watched as they spent the better part of an hour sorting through all manner of alien technology. Eventually, his exhaustion crept back up on him. He settled down on the mattress beside Bumblebee, and pulled the blankets up around his ears, burrowing his face in the soft material. He drifted off to the sound of First Aid’s cheerful warbling and the feeling of Bumblebee’s fingers stroking up and down his back. 

Sam slept deeply, as he had that morning. When he woke an interminable time later, the medical bay was quiet once again. He blinked open his eyes and then jerked back in surprise. Prowl stood at his bedside, arms folded over his chassis and his optics dimmed. The strategist lifted his helm as Sam pushed himself into a sitting position, his optics brightening to azure blue.

“Good evening, Sam.”

“Hey Prowl.” Sam said slowly, glancing around the medical bay. The large hangar was empty, neither Bumblebee nor the medics were anywhere to be seen. He looked back at Prowl with a sense of growing trepidation.

“I asked Ratchet to speak with you privately.” Prowl explained, correctly interpreting his disquiet.

“Alright.” Sam said, unable to keep the wariness out of his voice, “What’s up?”

Prowl was silent for several moments, an unusually emotive expression on his face. Sam briefly turned his attention inwards and brushed against Bumblebee’s winter-white glow. The answering swell of emotion was difficult to interpret, but it was calm and assured, so Sam returned his attention to the second-in-command.

 _Third-in-command now_. He reminded himself.

“I wish to express my gratitude for what you did.” Prowl said eventually, his gaze never leaving Sam’s face.

Sam laughed nervously, “I didn’t _do_ anything, Prowl. I was only along for the ride.”

Prowl shook his helm minutely, “You did what Optimus could not. I owe you a great debt for your actions today.”

Discomfort and embarrassment combined to spread a blush across Sam’s face. He looked away, suddenly unable to meet the strategist’s gaze.

“You don’t owe me anything, Prowl.”

Prowl slowly shuttered his optics, his ventilation surprisingly loud in the otherwise quiet hangar.

“Perhaps you are unaware of the nature of my relationship with Jazz.” He said at last. The strategist’s tone caught Sam by surprise, and he glanced back at him. It was fond and affectionate, with just the slightest edge of exasperation.

“Your relationship?” Sam asked curiously.

Prowl inclined his head, “Jazz and I are partners.”

It took a second for his meaning to become clear, and Sam’s eyes widened in response.

“Partners? You’re spark-bonded?”

“Not spark-bonded, no, but we have been in a relationship since the early vorns of the war.”

For some reason, this information took Sam completely by surprise. He knew about the tangible bonds that formed among Cybertronians—spark bonds, and Creator bonds, and twin sparks—but he did not realize that Cybertronians formed romantic partnerships as humans did. All at once, Sam felt embarrassed by his ignorance, and his blush deepened until it practically glowed.

“I didn’t know—I mean…” Sam stammered.

A smile pulled at the corners of Prowl’s mouth.

“Cybertronian social bonds are a complicated matter.” Prowl explained patiently, “Many of the concepts do not translate well from our culture to yours, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t understand.” Sam said, confusion furrowing his brow.

“Your bonded will explain more, I am sure. Suffice to say, polyamory and polygamy are common in our society, although we do not have spouses as you understand the term. Monogamy, although rarer, does occasionally occur outside of bonded pairs. Jazz and I are monogamous.”

Sam’s mind cast back to the memory of Jazz laid out in the mausoleum with glyphs painted with painstaking care over his entire body. His expression softened with empathy and understanding.

Prowl inclined his helm, “Indeed. Through your actions, however minor you claim your role to be, Jazz was returned to me. We are both in your debt.”

Sam wanted to deny Prowl’s words again, to laugh them off, but something stilled him. He remember the solemnity with which Optimus explained about the significance of life debts in their religion. Unsure of what to say or to do, Sam just nodded slowly. Prowl looked at him for a long moment, his optics impossibly bright. Then, he crossed one arm over his chassis and bowed deeply at the waist.

“You have my gratitude, Samuel Prime.”

The strategist’s words caused a complicated mixture of emotion to lodge itself in Sam’s throat. He swallowed hard, and managed to say, “Please, call me Sam.”

Prowl glanced up at him, and then straightened to his full height.

“If that is your wish.”

“It is.” Sam said firmly.

In the back of his mind, Sam could feel a gentle swell of pride and approval, overlaid with signifiers of affection. Whether the feelings were from Bumblebee or Ratchet, however, Sam could not say. Prowl inclined his helm respectfully and stepped away from the berth.

“I wish you good health.” He said, by way of valediction, and then he turned and strode out of the medical bay without a backwards glance. Sam watched as he disappeared through the large doors, and then he released a shaky breath that he hadn’t realized he had been holding. A moment later, he turned his attention inwards.

 _//That’s the last time that any of you calls me Samuel Prime.//_ He said blandly, to no one in particular. Bumblebee’s presence brightened with a confusing mix of _consternation-understanding-amusement_ , and then he brushed mental fingers across Sam’s mind.

 _//Prowl meant it as a sign of respect.//_ He said reassuringly. Sam said nothing in response, but his discomfort spoke volumes. Bumblebee’s holoform shimmered to life beside him, and then he stepped forward, clasping the back of Sam’s head and pulling him to rest against his chest. When next he spoke, his voice was firm. _//I’ll take care of it.//_

Sam closed his eyes and pressed his face into Bumblebee’s neck as he leaned into his bonded’s mental presence. After a moment, he deepened their mental connection, and their bond-space blossomed between them. Sam could feel Bumblebee’s _surprise_ —a fleeting thought about Megatron flashed across his mind before the scout could hide it away—but Sam pressed in deeper still. This closely intertwined, it was impossible to tell where Bumblebee ended and he began. Thought, and sensation, and feeling, and emotion passed between them in a blur. Sam could feel Bumblebee’s relief and joy—at least, he thought they were Bumblebee’s feelings; they might have been his own. After a long moment, he _brushed_ against the winter-white glow in his mind.

 _//I’m just me, Bee._ // He said at last, _//I’m not the Allspark or a figurehead in an alien religion. I’m just Sam.//_

By the time that he finished speaking, his voice had become plaintive and pained. The holoform’s touch gentled, becoming conciliatory.

 _//I know.//_ He murmured, _//That’s all that anyone expects you to be. Just Sam, our Sam.//_

Although Sam could not deny the _sincerity_ that he felt from his bonded, it did nothing to assuage the seed of apprehension that planted itself in his chest. If Bumblebee noticed, his bonded said nothing about it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note** : Thank-you to everyone who has continued along with me on this journey! Your enthusiasm and support means more to me than I can say. Seriously.
> 
>  **Chapter Warnings** : Explicit sexual content. Honestly, it's 90% porn. It didn't start out that way, but here we are.

The following days passed by uneventfully. Sam’s fatigue persisted, and he spent most of his time sleeping. When he awoke, either Ratchet or Hoist would help him to the washroom and then ply him with food. Ratchet stayed true to his threat and brought him only bland meals, mostly consisting of soups and simple carbs, but Hoist occasionally brought him sweets or Pho with a conspiratorial wink. Sam quickly grew to enjoy Hoist’s company. The physician was friendly and even-tempered, and he had a dry sense of humor.

Occasionally, First Aid would come to the hangar in order to fetch materials for the _Ark_ ’s clinic. The field medic delighted in sharing news about the comings and goings of the island, and Sam was more than happy to listen. He learned that Knock Out was beginning to settle into his role as clinician, although that in no way affected his temperamental disposition. He and Hot Rod had also become close—if that was the term to describe the way that they orbited one another with cutting comments and thinly veiled insults. Ravage spent her time either in the berthing hangar onboard the _Ark_ or in the company of Ultra Magnus as they coordinated the coup. When Sam inquired about the planning process, First Aid shared what little he knew: Prime would travel to the United States, where Soundwave would engineer an ambush. If Megatron took the bait, then the Seekers would assist the Autobots in capturing or killing him. The United States had agreed to their plan with the goal of eliminating a mutual enemy. If all went well, the coup would occur before the end of April. When Sam asked why it would take so long, First Aid smiled and reminded him that their concept of time differed markedly—a result of the Cybertronian’s long lifespans. 

Bumblebee visited Sam as often as he could, usually in his holoform but occasionally in his bipedal mode. The base was on high alert, and the scouts were busy with sentry duty, patrols, and ferrying equipment and supplies. Sam learned that with Jazz’s return, the duty roster had been adjusted once again. As Optimus’ second-in-command and head of Special Operations, Jazz had his own unit of soldiers. This included Mirage, Elita-1, Arcee, Smokescreen, and, to Sam’s surprise, Skids. As a result, their duties were re-distributed amongst the other Autobots on base, which considerably reduced Bumblebee’s leisure time.

By the third day of Sam’s recovery, Ratchet declared him well enough to return to his apartment. The medic accompanied him through North Quad that evening, and when they stepped into Sam’s quarters, he ordered him straight to bed. Sam was still fatigued, unable to stay awake for longer than four or five hours at a time, and so he acquiesced without complaint. Ratchet brought him a glass of water as Sam settled under the covers, and then bid him goodnight and disappeared. Sam stared at the spot the holoform had occupied with a faint smile, before leaning over to turn on the bedside light. He laid there for a long while, in the warm glow cast by the little lamp, until he finally drifted off.

When Sam woke up sometime later, it was to the feeling of Bumblebee climbing into bed. The holoform slid beneath the blankets and shifted forward to curl against Sam’s back. Sam raised his head, and tossed a sleepy smile over his shoulder.

“Hey. I thought you were escorting supplies to Nellis?” He asked, his voice rough with sleep.

Bumblebee pressed a chaste kiss below Sam’s ear.

“I was. We finished up an hour ago. I just got back.”

“Mm.” Sam murmured, laying back down and tucking his face into the pillow, “How was it?”

Bumblebee kissed him again, this time at the junction of his neck and shoulder, “It went well. Epps was stationed at Nellis before transferring to NEST, and we have a good working relationship with the base.”

Sam made a content sound, “That’s good. Glad you’re back.”

“So am I.” Bumblebee replied, nuzzling into Sam’s neck. All at once, Sam became aware of the way that Bumblebee’s hand was splayed over his lower abdomen, his thumb smoothing little circles into his flesh. Sam glanced over his shoulder again and quirked his lips at the holoform.

“Is this a booty call?” He asked in amusement.

Bumblebee’s face split into a grin, looking every bit like the cat who got the cream. Sam laughed, rolling onto his back and pinning the holoform with a teasing smile.

“Jeez, buy a guy dinner first, Bumblebee.”

His bonded chuckled, ducking down to nose at the tender flesh below Sam’s jaw. Sam’s breath caught in his throat, and he raised his chin to give him better access. Bumblebee hummed approvingly as he shifted forward, mouthing down the column of Sam’s neck. When he got to the hallow of his throat, Bumblebee nipped him gently and then swung a leg over Sam’s hips and pushed up to straddle his thighs. Sam stared up at him, his face softening with affection.

“C’mere.” Sam murmured, voice gone low and husky. He reached for Bumblebee, who leaned down obligingly, and then he kissed him deeply. Bumblebee rested his elbows against the mattress, hands tangled in Sam’s hair, and kissed him back. Sam had always prided himself on being a good kisser, but Bumblebee kissed like he was trying to worship Sam with his mouth. It was eager and intense, equally reverential and profane, and Sam absolutely _loved it_.

Sam could feel the smile that curled Bumblebee’s lips as the holoform caught his train of thought. Abruptly, Bumblebee’s grip in his hair tightened and he pulled Sam’s head back, arching his neck. Sam gasped in surprise and arousal, and Bumblebee looked at him searchingly.

“Yes?” He asked.

“ _Fuck_ _yes_.” Sam replied, breathlessly. Bumblebee’s expression warmed briefly, and then it turned predatory. With his hand still fisted in Sam’s hair, Bumblebee kissed him again, hot and fierce. Sam groaned, kissing him back as his hands gripped the holoform’s face. Far too soon, Bumblebee pulled away, pressing a chaste kiss against the corner of Sam’s mouth, and then he slowly rolled his groin against him. Sam made a strangled sound, hands falling to tangle in the blankets as he canted his hips up to meet him. 

“Do that again.” Sam panted, desperate to have more friction against his aching erection, “Right now.”

“Bossy.” Bumblebee teased, but he rolled his hips again all the same. Sam groaned, thrusting up to rut against Bumblebee’s body. Bumblebee stilled, watching in amusement as Sam chased his pleasure, and then he gave Sam’s hair a warning tug. Sam fell back against the mattress, gasping in exertion and lust, and turned pleading eyes towards his bonded.

“Bee, stop being a tease and _get me off_.”

Bumblebee’s eyebrows twitched up, and a smile slowly spread across his face.

“Now that was definitely bossy.” Bumblebee murmured playfully.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and groaned, his cock twitching between them. Bumblebee laughed and then the hand that wasn’t tangled in Sam’s hair palmed his erection through his sleep pants. Sam’s eyes flew open in surprise, and he made a high-pitched, needy sound that would have undoubtedly embarrassed him if he hadn’t been lost in a fog of hormones. Bumblebee’s hand slipped beneath the waistband of his pants, and then warm fingers wrapped around his aching flesh.

“I’ll take pity on you.” Bumblebee said, affection in his voice, “After all, you’re still recovering.”

Sam’s eyes slipped closed as Bumblebee stroked him from root to crown. His grip was light, barely more than a touch, but he palmed the head of Sam’s cock with each repetition until Sam was a sweating, panting wreck. Then, without warning, Bumblebee’s hand slipped out of his pants. Sam keened at the loss, his eyes snapping open to find the holoform’s face, but Bumblebee merely smiled at him as he hooked his fingers in the waistband of Sam’s pants.

“Lift up.” He instructed. When Sam complied, he pulled his pants down to his knees and then resumed his position. Sam watched as he subspaced a familiar bottle, and then he gasped loudly as Bumblebee drizzled the lube over his erection. The oily substance was cool against his hot flesh, and the shock of it took his breath away. Sam didn’t have the opportunity to dwell on the contrast, however, for Bumblebee took him in hand again a moment later. His fingers curled around Sam’s length, grip firm and warm, but then the holoform went still. Sam glanced from his cock to Bumblebee’s face, and was surprised by the expression there—it was one of patient, almost amused, expectation.

“Well? Go on then.”

Sam blinked at him in confusion, “Wh—what?”

“You know what to do. I want to watch.” Bumblebee murmured, his tone languid and indecent. To demonstrate his point, he pumped his hand up the full length of Sam’s cock, before stilling again.

Sam groaned, low in his throat as Bumblebee’s implication became clear. It made him feel simultaneously hot and exposed, and the combination only served to intensify his arousal.

“This isn’t going to last long if you keep talking like that.” Sam ground out, sweat beading to trickle down the side of his face.

“You were the one who was being impatient, I’m merely obliging you.” Bumblebee pointed out, before his mouth curled up into a salacious smile, “I’m more than happy to make you work for it. I already told you that you’re pretty when you beg.”

Sam felt a blush spread across his cheeks, and he squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to shy away from Bumblebee’s words. The holoform laughed softly, before stroking Sam’s weeping erection one more time. It was enough to cause Sam to plant his feet against the mattress and lift his hips, fucking up into Bumblebee’s hand. The heat of Bumblebee’s palm, the cool glide of the lubricant, and the firmness of his grip sent perfect pleasure straight through Sam’s cock. He groaned, fisting his hands in the bedsheets, as he began to thrust in a rhythm that was as old as time. 

“Beautiful.” Bumblebee murmured, his free hand trailing up Sam’s chest to play with his nipples, “I could watch you do this for hours. One day, I just might.”

Sam was panting loudly now, his breath catching in his throat as the heat in his groin coiled tighter with every thrust. He was surprised by the way that Bumblebee’s words were turning him on, pushing him closer to the edge. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Bumblebee’s presence _brightened_ meaningfully across their bond.

“You like that, do you?” He teased, swiping the pad of his thumb over the slit of Sam’s dick. Sam hissed his breath out between clenched teeth at the resulting shock of pleasure, “It’s true. I’ve thought about edging you slowly for hours until you begged me to orgasm. I might oblige you, or I might not, depending on how good you were for me.”

“ _Jesus Christ,_ Bumblebee.” Sam managed, voice wrecked.

“Mm.” Bumblebee replied, amusement in his voice, “I’ve also thought about seeing how many times I can make you orgasm. Men your age are renowned for their short refractory periods, and I would very much like to experience that for myself.” Bumblebee’s voice turned curious as he asked, “How many times have you gotten off in a single day?”

Sam whimpered, Bumblebee’s words sending a bolt of white-hot lust straight to his groin. It took him a moment before he could reply.

“Three times. Maybe four, I didn’t count.” He panted, voice catching in his throat.

“Well then, we have a personal best to beat.” Bumblebee said, twisting his wrist as Sam thrust up again, “You’re getting close, I can feel it. Look at me.”

Sam obeyed, blinking sweat out of his eyes. Bumblebee smiled at him affectionately, his free hand dropping down to massage Sam’s testicles.

“Before that happens, you’re going to tell me every fantasy that you’ve ever had, and I will do my best to make them come true.” Bumblebee’s voice dipped, becoming husky as he purred, “Because I know that you want me to fuck you.”

Sam moaned, a bone-deep guttural sound, and bucked up into Bumblebee’s hand as he came. Semen striped his stomach as pleasure pulsed up and out of him with every wave of his orgasm. Bumblebee’s grip gentled as he lightly pumped Sam’s cock through the aftershocks. As Sam collapsed back against the mattress, gasping as though he had just run a four minute mile, Bumblebee leaned down to kiss him. The press of his lips was soft, affectionate, and then Bumblebee pressed their foreheads together.

“Perfect.” He murmured, and Sam was too far gone to be confused by the emotion in his voice. 

As Sam’s breathing evened out and his heartrate slowly returned to normal, he slanted open his eyes and looked at the holoform. Bumblebee had moved to lay down beside him, his expression openly fond. 

“That was…” Sam started, before swallowing dryly, “That was something else.”

Bumblebee laughed lightly, his blue eyes sparkling in the dim light of the bedroom.

“I rather enjoyed it.” He replied, a teasing lilt to his voice.

Sam huffed a laugh as he reached to pull open the bedside table. He retrieved a wad of toilet paper and wiped himself off with a twist of his lips. A quick glance at the alarm clock revealed that it was just after six o’clock in the morning.

“What’s on your duty roster today?” He asked, tossing the tissue into the wastebasket.

“I am patrolling with Cliff at seven-thirty, and then I have a rotation at the munitions depot.”

Sam shifted to look at him, “Can I come?”

Bumblebee’s expression became hesitant. The holoform pushed up into a sitting position and looked at him seriously, before slowly replying, “Ratchet hasn’t cleared you for return to active duty.”

Sam felt a flash of annoyance, although it was not directed at anyone in particular. He pushed himself to his feet and walked to the closet, pulling open the doors with more force than necessary. He grabbed some boxers out of the drawer, before tugging a pair of slacks and a shirt off the hanger. By the time he pushed the closet door closed with his foot, Bumblebee had moved to sit on the edge of the mattress. The holoform was watching him closely, a troubled expression on his face.

“Sam, you’ve been through a lot. I understand that you want to get back to normal as quickly as possible, but you need to give yourself some time.”

Sam leveled a glare in his direction, “Time isn’t the problem. I have nothing but time.”

Bumblebee stood up and crossed the short distance between them. He took Sam by his elbows, his expression earnest and concerned, “You’ve only been back for eighteen days. Please, Sam. Give it a little longer.”

His bonded’s words took Sam by surprise. He stilled, the corners of his mouth turning down in a frown.

“Has it only been that long?” He asked disbelievingly.

Sensing his opening, Bumblebee pressed his advantage, “Yes, it has. Why don’t you spend the day preparing for your courses? The semester starts on Tuesday.”

Sam huffed at him, fully aware of what Bumblebee was doing. The scout knew that Sam’s schoolwork was perhaps the only thing that would distract him from pushing to return to active duty. Bumblebee squeezed his elbows gently as his mental presence nudged against Sam’s mind. It was a strangely affectionate gesture, not unlike the way that Ravage would rub her faceplates over his chest, and Sam’s lips quirked up in response.

“That’s blatantly manipulative.” He said, but there was no heat in it.

The tension in Bumblebee’s shoulders relaxed minutely, and the scout smirked at him.

“No, it’s not. I’m being protective, it’s endearing.”

“Oh, it’s something alright.” Sam agreed with a laugh, “I’m going to grab a shower. Do you want to come to the mess with me afterwards?”

Bumblebee hummed at him in agreement, “I have nowhere to be until patrol.”

Sam angled his head to press a kiss to the underside of Bumblebee’s jaw, and then he made his way into the bathroom. After he relieved himself and brushed his teeth, Sam pulled a towel and a facecloth out of the linen closet and turned on the facet. He waited until the temperature was just the way he liked it—just this side of scalding hot—and then he climbed into the shower. He soaped himself quickly, scrubbing at the tacky remains on his stomach, before stepping under the showerhead and rinsing off. He stood there for a long moment, eyes closed and head tipped back, as hot water cascaded over his shoulders and chest. He felt satiated and relaxed in a full-bodied way. It was nice.

With a soft sigh, Sam reached for the shampoo. Before he could grasp the plastic bottle, however, he felt the press of a warm body against his back. He startled badly in surprise, nearly slipping on the slick shower floor, but firm hands caught him by the waist. Sam jerked around, astonished to see Bumblebee standing behind him. The holoform was naked, wearing nothing but a mischievous expression on his face. One hand that was on Sam’s waist slipped forward to cup his genitals, squeezing him gently.

“I find myself unable to get our conversation about refractory periods out of my mind.” He purred, catching Sam’s earlobe in his teeth as he fondled his testicles, “Do you object?”

Sam groaned as blood simultaneously rushed to his face and his cock. He spread his legs slightly and pressed up into Bumblebee’s hand.

“I’ll take that as a no.” His bonded replied, a laugh in his voice. Bumblebee caressed him until he was half-hard, it took less time than Sam would have thought, and then he went down to his knees in front of him. Sam braced himself with one hand against the shower wall and the other against Bumblebee’s shoulder as the holoform proceeded to give him an enthusiastic blowjob. He gasped and moaned, head thrown back and the muscles in his legs quivering with the strain of standing upright. When Bumblebee’s finger brushed the space behind his balls, Sam’s eyes snapped open. He angled his head down to find the holoform looking up at him, a questioning expression on his face.

“Yes.” Sam panted, “Please, _God_ , yes.”

Bumblebee made an amused sound around Sam’s cock, which caused Sam to cry out in surprise. A moment later, Bumblebee’s finger brushed over Sam’s tight hole and then pushed inside. The stretch was as strange as it had been the first time. This time, however, Bumblebee wasted no time in finding Sam’s prostate. He crooked his finger against the small cluster of nerve endings, massaging it firmly but gently. The resulting sparks of liquid pleasure caused Sam’s knees to go weak, and Bumblebee had to steady him with a hand against his waist. Sam knew that he was begging, pleading for release, but he was completely unaware of the words that were coming out of his mouth. His thoughts had narrowed down to single syllables— _fuck_ and _more_ and _please_.

Bumblebee did not tease him this time. Instead, the holoform bent to task, swallowing Sam’s dick as he worked his prostate with merciless precision. In less time than Sam would have thought—a fact that was as embarrassing as it was relieving—Sam came with a hoarse shout down the holoform’s throat. Bumblebee swallowed around him, coaxing the tremors of Sam’s orgasm out of him, before he withdrew his finger and settled back onto his heels.

Sam moaned as he sunk bonelessly to the shower floor. He sat on his ass under the warm spray, leaning against the wall and panting as he tried to catch his breath. Bumblebee reached forward, cupping the side of his face with one hand as he grasped Sam’s knee with the other. It took Sam a long moment before he squinted open his eyes and laughed breathlessly at his bonded.

“I take back what I said about you being an old man.”

Bumblebee chuckled quietly, his entire face warming in amusement as he reached to turn off the faucet. He helped Sam climb unsteadily to his feet and get out of the shower. As soon as Sam stepped onto the mat, the holoform _shimmered_ and then solidified in his clothing. Bumblebee stepped forward, retrieving the towel off the counter and wrapped it around Sam’s shoulder. As Bumblebee dried him off, Sam looked at the holoform’s clothes. He was wearing his usual attire—long sleeved shirt and slacks, both in shades of army green, and lace-up boots. Sam reached out to pinch the material of the holoform’s shirt between his forefinger and thumb.

“Do you ever get tired wearing the same thing all the time?” He asked curiously.

Bumblebee tilted his head, a contemplative expression on his face, “No, I do not. I am aware that humans have a stigma against wearing the same coverings every day, but it is not a sentiment that our species share.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Sam conceded good-naturedly. It wasn’t like the Autobots changed their armor at the end of the day.

Bumblebee scrubbed one end of the towel over Sam’s hair, and then draped it around his neck.

“Get dressed. We’re running late.”

“Whose fault is that?” Sam laughed, stepping over to the counter and grabbing his clothes. Bumblebee’s lips twitched, but he didn’t look the least bit contrite. Sam pulled on his clothes and made his way from the bathroom into the living room. Bumblebee followed along behind him, hands in his pockets and his posture relaxed. Sam leaned against the wall by the front door as he pulled on his shoes.

“What’s the weather like?” He asked curiously, pocketing his cell phone and identification badge.

“It’s clear and twenty-eight degrees Celsius. There’s wind out of the north at 11 kilometers an hour.”

Sam laughed as he pulled open the door, “I don’t think I’ll never get used to the metric system.”

“It’s nice out.” Bumblebee translated dryly as they made their way into the corridor.

“Thanks.” Sam said with a grin, “I’ll go with you to the Point. I could use some fresh air.”

Bumblebee hummed at him in acknowledgement, and then they made their way towards the mess hall. The North Quad was unusually busy despite the early morning hour, with uniformed officers and soldiers making their way through the halls. There was tension in the air, a sort of wary anticipation that showed on the faces of those that they passed. Sam nodded at anyone who greeted him, smiling at them pleasantly, but otherwise he walked in silence. When they arrived at the mess hall, which was bustling with the clamor of hungry personnel and the clink of dishware, Sam ambled towards the galley. After he had gotten his food, and returned Jackson’s good-natured greeting, he found a table near the entrance. He ate quickly, working through his continental breakfast in less than ten minutes. Then, he and Bumblebee made their way out of the mess and back towards the North Quad entrance. As they stepped onto the bridge, Sam smiled at the sight of the yellow Camaro parked beside the red and black Bugatti Chiron.

“Hey Cliff.” He said cheerfully, stepping up to Bumblebee’s side, “How’re you doing this morning?”

“I’m doing well, thank-you Sam.” Cliffjumper replied, a smile in his voice, “I am glad to see you up and about.”

Sam lifted his shoulder in a self-conscious shrug, “Oh, you know me. Never down for long.”

Bumblebee popped open his driver’s side door and Sam climbed into the cabin without another word. As soon as he settled against the supple leather seat, Bumblebee closed the door behind him. Together, he and Cliffjumper made their way through the bridge and into the receiving room. They parked on the large lift and, after a cluster of soldiers in full combat gear joined them, they began to ascend topside. Shortly thereafter, Bumblebee accelerated through the downtown area in the watery light of early morning. It was surprisingly quiet, given the bustle of activity in the Hive. There were only a few pedestrians making their way along the road, and they passed perhaps a half-a-dozen heavily armored vehicles by the time that they reached Simpson Point.

As Bumblebee slowed to a stop and opened the door, Sam stared through the windshield. The sky was a tapestry, dusky blue overhead that warmed to pale yellow at the horizon. Golden crepuscular rays fanned out from behind a narrow band of clouds, behind which the sun was just beginning to rise. The ocean was dark blue, and waves lapped gently onto the shore.

It was breathtakingly beautiful.

Sam stared at the scene in front of them for a moment longer and then, mindful of Bumblebee’s duties, climbed out of the cab. He pushed the door shut behind him, and patted Bumblebee’s bonnet affectionately.

“Have a good patrol.” He said, tossing a smile at Cliffjumper, “Don’t do anything that I wouldn’t do.”

Bumblebee honked at him, a strangely playful sound, before the two scouts pulled onto the road and drove away. Sam watched him go, and as they took a corner into the denser vegetation, he brushed against Bumblebee’s mental presence. It was an affectionate touch, and Bumblebee reciprocated it a moment later.

Sighing softly to himself, Sam pushed his hands into his pockets and made his way over the bream and onto the beach. It was almost uncomfortably warm, despite the early hour, but the breeze off the ocean was cool and pleasant. Sam walked back towards the base at a leisurely pace; he had nowhere to be and he was in no hurry to get there.

As he rounded Simpson Point in the direction of Downtown, he heard Lennox’s voice yell out, “Move your sorry ass, Sanders! Pick up the pace!”

Sam’s eyebrows flew to his hairline and his steps quickened. As he cleared the curve in the beach, he pulled up short. In the distance, he could make out Lennox and Epps in full uniform pacing back and forth in front of a platoon of soldiers. The soldiers were arranged in three rows and wearing full combat gear. They were, to the best of Sam’s estimation, doing a series of calisthenics in the sand. Even from a distance, Sam could see that they were flushed red and sweating heavily.

“I swear to God, where did Prowl find you people? In a Home Depot parking lot?”

Sam huffed a laugh that was equal parts amused and sympathetic. He knew that the Major was a demanding CO who took his job screening new recruits very seriously. Sam made to walk over the bream and off the beach when Epps caught sight of him. The older man was standing nearer to Sam than Lennox, his dark face shiny with sweat.

“Good morning, Ambassador.” He called out, his deep voice booming across the beach.

Sam stared at him in surprise. In all the time that he had known Epps, the other man had never referred to him in honorifics. It took him a moment to realize that Epps was speaking for the benefit of the new recruits. Sam could feel a flush spread across his face, but he swallowed down his discomfort.

“Good morning Chief Master Sergeant.” He replied neutrally, walking forward several paces, “A lovely day for a stroll on the beach.”

“Yes, sir, it is.” Epps continued, and Sam knew a moment of irritation at the man.

 _You’ve drank me under the table before, you asshole._ He thought, affixing a bland smile on his face.

“Good morning, Mr. Witwicky.” Lennox greeted him, before turning his head to bark at the recruits, “Jesus Christ, parade rest, you morons.”

Sam was able to keep the wince off his face with a modicum of effort. The soldiers were certainly not wet-behind-the-ears recruits. The youngest was appreciably older than Sam, and most of them looked to be of an age with Lennox himself. Yet none of the men and women in front of him complained or pulled a face at Lennox’s harsh words. Instead, they snapped to parade rest in tidy formation.

“These our newest arrivals?” Sam asked, motioning to the platoon with his chin.

“Some of them, perhaps, sir. We’re still determining rightness of fit.” Lennox replied promptly, turning to look over his shoulder at the soldiers. His eyes were sharp and assessing, and when he turned back towards him, Sam inferred that he had found nothing to criticize about their formation.

“Well, I won’t keep you. Good morning Major, Chief Master Sergeant.” Sam said, inclining his head. To his embarrassment, both Lennox and Epps snapped off crisp salutes before turning back to their platoon. As Sam stepped towards the bream, he noticed one of the recruits looking in his direction. It was a younger man, perhaps late twenties, with dark hair and an olive complexion. As soon as they made eye contact, the soldier’s head snapped forward and he straightened his posture. Unfortunately for the recruit, it was not soon enough to escape Epps’ notice.

“Lieutenant Novo!” He barked, moving to step into the recruit’s personal space, “I don’t believe the Major gave the command to stand at ease. Am I mistaken?”

“Sir, no sir!”

“Then you will kindly put your face in the sand until I tell you otherwise.”

Without hesitation, the lieutenant dropped to the ground and started to do push-ups. Sam had a moment of indecision—he wanted to protest, to tell Epps that it was no big deal—but he knew better. Instead, he turned and made his way over the bream and onto the packed dirt road that led to the base. In the distance, he could hear the sound of waves breaking on the shore and Lennox’s sharp commands. 

He walked in silence as the sun climbed higher into the atmosphere, staining the sky in blues and pinks. He was half-way to the base when the sight of a Peterbilt truck rumbling over the road towards him caused him to pause. The familiar red, white, and blue alt mode slowed to a stop as it neared, its grill glinting in the early morning light.

“Sam. I would speak with you.”

Although the Autobot leader’s voice was polite, it also brooked no argument. Sam knew a moment of restless anxiety, and then resignation took its place.

“Yeah, Optimus, alright.” He replied, stepping towards the alt mode. Prime opened his door, and Sam climbed up into his cab. As he settled into the driver’s seat, nervous tension thrumming in his body, Optimus turned around and headed back towards the base.


	3. Chapter 3

The drive back to the base was a quiet one. Sam sat stiffly in the seat, his hands in his lap, as Optimus navigated the narrow dirt road. The cab in which he found himself was familiar—a wood and chrome dashboard filled with gauges and read-outs, a long stick shift, and two bucket seats set in front of a curtained off sleeper area. The steering wheel moved of its own accord as Optimus turned onto the paved road that led to the downtown area. As they drove, Sam’s eyes were drawn to the Autobot emblem that was etched into the dash. The icon’s visage seemed solemn and weary.

Optimus slowed as he approached the checkpoint at the edge of the base. The little booth was affixed to a boom barrier that extended across the roadway. Two soldiers in Air Force fatigues stood at attention as he rumbled to a stop, and then a moment later, the gate was raised to allow him to pass. Optimus rolled forward and continued on through the downtown area. Both vehicle and pedestrian traffic had increased since Sam, Bee, and Cliff had driven through earlier that morning. Optimus navigated the roads with care, and it was no time at all before they were descending into the receiving room of the Hive. As soon as the lift disappeared into the smooth concrete floor, Optimus accelerated across the long room and through the wide doors onto the bridge. People glanced at him as he passed by, their eyes lingering on his brightly colored exterior. It was then that Sam realized, rather belatedly, just how much attention Optimus’ alt mode garnered.

They drove first to West Quad and then down the long, white corridors to the hangar that was Optimus’ office. Sam felt a moment of profound trepidation as they entered the large room. Optimus came to a stop in front of the broad, teak-colored desk and, with a murmur of warning, he transformed. Sam was used to the experience by now, but he still held his breath as the cabin exploded into motion around him. Panels split into innumerable pieces that twisted and folded away. He was curled up and shifted about, but he blinked open his eyes a moment later to find himself cupped in Optimus’ metal palm. The Autobot leader finished his transformation sequence and then lowered his servo to the level of the desk. Sam stepped onto the broad table, before turning to look at him expectantly. Optimus stared down at him for a long moment, optics glowing brightly on his otherwise somber face.

“You really know how to draw out your moment.” Sam said dryly, pushing his hands into the pockets of his pants. His attempt at levity was met with an ex-vented sigh.

“I have spent a great deal of time considering how best to approach this conversation.” Optimus admitted as he moved to sit in the enormous chair behind the desk. Sam lifted his shoulders in a shrug.

“Well, if you have any ideas, I’m all ears.” Sam replied, perfectly serious despite the lightness of his voice, “I don’t even know where to start.”

Optimus clasped his servos together, his expression contemplative and solemn.

“You may not wish to hear what I must tell you.” Optimus warned.

“I know.” Sam replied simply.

Optimus inclined his head in acknowledgement. He was silent for a moment longer, as though he were putting his thoughts in order, and then he began to speak.

“What you did, in reviving Jazz, was miraculous. I have spent orns in supplication and benediction since his death, yet Primus did not see fit to answer my prayers.” Optimus started, and there was nothing self-deprecating or piteous about his tone. He spoke matter-of-factly, as though he were imparting a simple truth, “We owe you a debt of gratitude, Sam. None more so than I.”

His words made Sam feel uncomfortable, and he forced himself to smile at the Autobot leader.

“Just add it to the list, I guess?” 

As before, Optimus did not let Sam hide behind a mask of levity. He continued as though Sam had not spoken.

“There can no longer be any doubt, among either the most ardent skeptic or devout believer, as to your legitimacy as a Prime.” Optimus rumbled seriously, “The Matrix of Leadership has chosen you, Sam.”

Sam could feel the flush spreading across his skin, warming his cheeks.

“Chosen me.” He repeated slowly, rolling the words around in his mouth, “For what?”

To Sam’s surprise, Optimus chuckled softly.

“I asked Alpha Trion that same question after I had been remade as Optimus Prime.” The Autobot leader replied, “I can only offer you the same answer that he gave me: it is not our place to understand the designs of our god—it is our place to serve and to lead.”

Sam flinched, his gaze falling to the table. The implications in Optimus’ words were vast and profound, and he was ill-equipped to come to terms with what the Autobot leader was saying. It made him feel like an imposter—it made him feel small.

“You told me that things can stay the way they are.” He finally managed, and he couldn’t hide the hurt or the accusation in his voice, “You told me that I had a choice.”

“I had hoped to give you one.” Optimus replied softly, inclining his helm, “I wanted to protect you from the burdens of this mantle and the difficult times that are surely ahead.” Optimus’ voice deepened with remorse, “It was a promise that I could not keep. I cannot shield you from your destiny, Sam, however much I might wish it.”

“Destiny?” Sam repeated, incredulity and distain seeping into his voice, “Are we really having a conversation about free will versus determinism right now?”

“The two concepts are not mutually exclusive.” Optimus rumbled, as though the false dichotomy was the actual issue on the forefront of Sam’s mind.

“That’s not the point, Optimus!” Sam snapped, his flush darkening in anger, “If your god is omniscient, then he should have known that I don’t want to be his—his—whatever the hell this is!”

Sam punctuated his words by gesturing between them, vaguely but insistently. Optimus was silent for a long moment, practically an eternity by Cybertronian standards. When at last he spoke, his voice was quiet and reflective.

“I expressed a similar sentiment, all of those years ago. I have come to learn, painfully at times, that my desires and my responsibilities do not always align with one another.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, steepling his hands in front of his face.

“Optimus, I’m going to make this very simple. I’m not a priest, or a politician, or a leader, and I’m most definitely not a messenger for your deity.”

Optimus’ optics seemed to brighten, and he leaned forward in his chair.

“Do you know how Primes are named?” He asked unexpectedly, and Sam could tell by his inflection that it was a leading question.

“What does that have to do with anything?” He demanded.

“Please, Sam. Humor me.”

Sam scoffed softly, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, “No. I don’t know.”

“Optimus Prime is not my name. Rather, it is an English translation of Cybertronian glyphs. This is true for all of our designations.” Optimus picked up a datapad that was roughly the size of a flat screen television. His servo flew over the screen as he typed something out, and then he turned the pad to show Sam. There were three glyphs in scrawling Cybertronian visible on the tablet.

“This is Bumblebee’s designation in Iaconian. This glyph—“ Optimus pointed at the left-most character, “—is a signifier of speed. It roughly translates to _one who is quick and agile_. This glyph refers to his coloration, yellow and black, and this glyph refers to his stature.”

Sam frowned at the screen. It took a long moment for the meaning of Optimus’ words to become clear.

“Bumblebee’s name in Iaconian is ‘small, fast, and yellow-and-black’?”

Optimus rumbled in amusement, “There are modifiers that give the phrase more nuance—“ He gestured at the small symbols that were dotted around two of the glyphs, “—but yes, that is essentially correct. This was why he chose the designation Bumblebee.”

Sam stepped forward, lifting a hand to trace the glyph for _quick and agile_. It gave him a strange turn in his stomach to know that Bumblebee was only an approximation of his bonded’s given name—a name that he would never be able to pronounce. Idly, Sam wondered whether Bumblebee mourned the fact. He certainly did.

After the silence between them grew heavy, Sam swallowed around the lump in his throat and tried to affect an air of lightheartedness.

“I didn’t realize that your names were so literal.”

Optimus’ mouthplates curved up in a faint smile.

“Not always, but often. Occasionally we are named after objects of significance. My original designation, Orion Pax, is one such example. I was named after the constellation that you know as Orion the Hunter.”

Sam glanced up at the Autobot leader in surprise.

“You can see our constellations from Cybertron?”

“Many of them, though not all, and their visual presentation varies markedly between our planets.”

That made sense, Sam thought to himself. He could remember the time that he had been studying for astronomy in parents’ garage in Tranquility. When he had showed Bumblebee a picture of the Milky Way galaxy in his textbook, the scout had whistled at him gently and, with some prompting, pointed to the area that contained Cybertron. Their planets were located over a quadrant apart from one another; Earth, near the Orion arm of the galaxy spiral, and Cybertron nearer the Carina-Sagittarius arm. It would follow that the position of the stars in the night’s sky would also be different on their planets.

Sam chewed his lip, considering Optimus’ words, when something occurred to him.

“What about Pax?” He asked curiously.

Optimus shuttered his optics, something like a grimace tightening his face.

“Pax means _peaceful_ or _time of extended peace_.” He replied, “I was sparked during the Golden Age, as you know. Still, I have often wondered whether Primus intended it as a reminder or as a warning.”

Sam did not know what to say in reply, and so he said nothing at all. He pushed his hands into his pockets, his gaze falling to the table again. After a moment, Optimus ex-vented a weary-sounding sigh.

“Forgive my mawkishness, Sam. I did in fact have a point to make.” The Autobot leader apologized, before he continued on, “I was named Optimus Prime by Alpha Trion. At face-value, my designation means _most favored one_ or _advantageous one_. With its signifiers, however, the meaning changes to _the one who brings true peace._ ”

By the time that he finished speaking, Optimus’ voice had taken on a grim edge. Sam stared up at him, trying to make sense of his words. After a long time, he sighed resignedly.

“Why are you telling me this, Optimus?”

The Autobot leader visibly hesitated, his expression becoming contemplative. He drummed the blunt tips of his digits against the smooth tabletop, and tentatively asked, “Do you know the meaning of your name?”

Sam’s frown returned, deepening with a mixture of confusion and trepidation.

“I was named after my mother’s father.” He replied slowly.

Optimus shook his helm minutely, “I do not refer to the familial connotations of your name, but rather its linguistic roots.” When Sam stared up at him blankly, Optimus’ voice gentled and he continued, “Samuel is of Hebrew origins. It means _heard of God_ or _messenger of God_. Samuel was a prophet of the Abrahamic religions, whose God worked through him. He is widely considered to be one of the wisest leaders of Israel.”

Sam could feel the blood draining out of his face as Optimus spoke, but before he could argue, the Autobot leader continued, “Your secondary name, James, is also of Hebrew origins. It refers to _the one who comes after_ —a leader who follows in the footsteps of another.”

“That’s… that’s ridiculous.” He stammered, “It’s just a stupid coincidence.”

“I do not believe that it is.” Optimus replied simply.

Sam stood in stunned silence. After a long moment, he managed, “I need to sit down.”

Optimus’ expression sharpened in concern, but before he could reply, Sam sank to the table. He sat there on his ass, shoulders curled forward, with his hands pressed over his mouth. Optimus regarded him for a long while, disquiet written all over his faceplates.

“Sam—“

“I need a minute.” Sam interrupted him. His words were barely more than a murmur against his fingers. Optimus inclined his helm in understanding, shuttering his optics as he did so. They sat there in mutual silence for an interminable time. It was only after he started to lose sensation in his legs that Sam raised his head to stare dully at the Autobot leader.

“What do you want from me, Optimus?” He asked. His voice sounded tired even to his own ears. 

“As I have said, Sam, my desires and my responsibilities are often markedly different.” Optimus replied, as solemn as Sam had ever heard him, “What I want is for you to live a long, happy life, untouched by the realities of war and free to choose your own path. Given all that has happened, however, I believe it is my duty to prepare you for every eventuality.”

“What eventualities are you talking about, Optimus?”

Optimus’ expression darkened. He looked as though he were steeling himself with grim determination.

“The Allspark energy will continue to regenerate inside of your body. With Jazz’s revival, the ramifications of this fact have been made abundantly clear. It will not be long before Megatron and the Decepticons learn of what you have managed, if they do not already know. The fervor with which they will pursue you, across time and space, cannot be overstated. Megatron left our planet in shambles to chase the Allspark across the galaxy—he will not hesitate to move heaven and Earth to claim you when he realizes what you can do.”

Sam felt nauseous. He knew that Megatron’s pride would cause the warlord to search for him—he had told Sam as much onboard the _Nemesis._ Yet pride and ambition were two very different motives, and the Decepticon leader was nothing if not ambitious. He had risen from the ranks as a lowly gladiator to Lord High Protector with nothing but his drive and determination. It was that same ruthlessness that had caused him to tear his world apart and then abandon it without hesitation in pursuit of his goals. In pursuit of the Allspark.

“This is bullshit.” Sam managed at last, and he did not have the energy to regret his bitter, petulant tone.

Optimus inclined his helm, as though in sympathetic understanding.

“I am sorry, Sam.”

“Yeah, I know.” Sam replied, harshly, “You and everyone else.”

The Autobot leader visibly hesitated, his expression uncertain. All at once, Sam was forcibly reminded of that fateful morning on the flight deck of the USS Theodore Roosevelt. Optimus had been similarly hesitant and determined when he had laid the first of many life-altering revelations at Sam’s feet. This time, at least, he wasn’t screaming obscenities at the Autobot leader. 

_Personal growth_ , Sam thought with a twist of his lips, _Karen would be so proud of me._

There was a swell of wry amusement from the edge of Sam’s mind, which was gone just as quickly as it had appeared. He did not need to turn his focus inwards to know that Ratchet was monitoring him closely. Sam brushed against the medic’s soft, undulating glow—in appreciation as much as reassurance—before raising his head to look at Optimus.

“What does this mean for me? What do you expect me to do?”

Optimus shuttered his optics slowly, as though in surprise. Evidentially, the Autobot leader had not expected his weary acquiescence. After a moment’s pause, Optimus answered him.

“Nothing more than you are already doing, at least for the moment.”

“Can you be more specific?” Sam returned, dryly.

Optimus’ expression warmed, his optics brightening and his mouthplates curving upwards. 

“Continue on as you have been—apply yourself to your studies, heed the advice of Ratchet and Dr. Anderson, and allow me to share more about our history and culture with you.”

“Is that all?” He asked sardonically, stretching his legs out in front of him.

Optimus inclined his helm, but otherwise he did not answer. Sam stared up at him for a long moment, considering his words. Logically, he knew that very little had changed since a week ago: Megatron was still a grave threat, the Allspark energy was still in his body, and he was still struggling to come to terms with whatever mystical bullshit that he was going through. Yet despite that, everything was different. He was different.

After a long while, Sam sighed softly. He braced his hands against the table, and pushed to his feet. Optimus watched him in silence, his countenance one of stoic calm.

“I have a lot to think about.” Sam said neutrally.

“Yes, you do.” Optimus agreed.

Sam nodded faintly as he pushed his hands into his pockets, “Are we done?”

Optimus’ expression changed, becoming hesitant, almost vulnerable. The look was gone as quickly as it appeared—if Sam had blinked, he would have missed it.

“I do not wish to presume upon our relationship,” He rumbled, solemn and dignified, “but I know something of what you are going through. I am here, if you ever wish to talk.”

Sam’s face softened in appreciation.

“Thanks Optimus. I’ll keep that in mind.”

* * *

Slowly, Sam’s days developed into something of a predictable routine. He woke up early, making his way to the mess hall sometime between seven and eight o’clock in the morning. After a large breakfast, Sam made his way back to the apartment and settled in front of his computer. He spent three or four hours watching pre-recorded lectures and completing his readings. To his surprise and consternation, the _Deliberative Democracy_ course was partially synchronous and required weekly participation in Zoom discussions. As a result, Sam had to surrender his laptop to Wheeljack and Perceptor for three days in order for the engineers to upgrade its firewalls and security systems. The first Zoom meeting took place on Wednesday, and it was one of the most nerve-wracking experiences of Sam’s life. It was his first contact with the outside world in almost three years, and he was certain that he wasn’t imagining the curious looks on his classmate’s faces. His professor, however, seemed to give exactly zero shits about his celebrity status. She asked and answered questions in the same stern, serious manner regardless of which student she was addressing. By the end of the first discussion session, Sam felt almost giddy with relief. 

As his days progressed, Sam began to spend more and more time with Dave Carter. It began on the first day of the semester when they crossed paths in the mess hall. The agent smiled at him and asked, with a tone that was suspiciously cheerful, whether Sam was still interested in assisting him with the SAARC paperwork. Sam agreed wholeheartedly, and so it was that three hours later, he found himself in Carter’s office facing a veritable avalanche of paperwork. There were piles of paper on every available surface, which included forms for forms that had been filled out in triplicate. As he stood in the doorway, speechless, he turned to look at Dave. The agent grinned unapologetically, his hands in his pockets as he rocked back and forth on his heels. 

“You did offer.” He said good-naturedly. 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I did.” Sam agreed slowly, “Where do we start?” 

They spent all afternoon and well into the evening sorting through the paperwork. As soon as they organized one formidable pile, a lawyer came to whisk it away to be checked and double-checked. It was half past six when Sam sat back with a groan, his stomach panging with hunger and his hands cramping from writing so much. Dave chuckled at him understandingly, and tossed Sam a printout of the mess hall’s digital menu. Less than forty minutes later, Dave’s personal assistant popped into the office with take-out containers like the Archangel Raphael appearing from the heavens. Sam almost moaned in appreciation as the smell of savory spices hit him in the face when he opened the cardboard box. He and Dave proceeded to spend an enjoyable twenty minutes eating their meals as they chatted about the comings and goings of the base. By the time that Sam finished the last of his chicken biryani, he felt fortified enough to dive back into the paperwork. 

After that, Sam saw Dave almost every day. Sometimes they were together for short periods, an hour here or there, and other times they worked well into the night. Dave had him work on an assortment of tasks, from proofreading paperwork, to organizing files, to making arrangements for Optimus’ schedule. It was only after Sam pulled up the Autobot leader’s calendar in Outlook that he realized just how busy he was. Optimus’ days were packed on a twenty-four hour clock, with only brief periods once or twice a week for recharge. Many of the time slots were double-booked, as Optimus was capable of meeting in both his bipedal mode and his holoform at the same time. Sam winced in sympathy as he saw the meeting tags: Phone call: US President; Conference call: Indian Ministry of Defense; Debrief: US Sec Def; Meeting: Senior Staff (Duty rotations); Meeting: Lennox (USAF), and on and on it went. Sam was both surprised and embarrassed to see his own name in the meeting tags at staggered intervals (Meeting: Witwicky, private). He was astonished that the Autobot leader was able to pencil him into his schedule at all, let alone for several hours every week. 

When Sam wasn’t working, he spent most of his free time outside. He walked a lot, usually in the early morning when the air was still cool. On the rare occasion that he had free time in the afternoon, he would make his way to the beach just south of Simpson Point. He spent hours sprawled on the sand, dozing lightly in the sunshine, or swimming in the lukewarm ocean. One afternoon, approximately two weeks after the semester began, Sam spent an enjoyable few hours swimming and cracking jokes with Bumblebee, Cliff, and Roddy. He was aware of Ratchet’s mood, which slowly changed from exasperated to annoyed over the course of the afternoon. 

The medic’s mental presence brightened when Hot Rod pulled Sam through the ocean at high speeds, sending up a curtain of salt water. Sam had his arms wrapped around the cavalier’s wrist, holding on for dear life as Hot Rod swung his arm in a wide semi-circle. As Sam lost his grip and ate a face full of surf, Ratchet’s mental presence swelled with abject irritation. 

_//If you’re well enough to act so foolishly, then you’re well enough to get back to work.//_

Sam surfaced a moment later, wiping water off his face. Before he could formulate a response, however, the Creator bond shivered and fell away. Sam knew a moment of profound vertigo as the neural network came rushing back to him. He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet in the chest-high water and groaned, pressing his hands against the sides of his head. 

_//C’mon, Ratch. Have mercy.//_ He complained. 

The medic’s mental presence was entirely unsympathetic. 

_//Get out of the water, you’re done for the day.//_

From the foreshore, Bumblebee whistled at him concernedly. The scout’s winter-white glow brushed over his mind, warm and affectionate. 

“I’m fine.” Sam called out, “But I have to head back.” 

His companions made a flurry of sympathetic whistles and chirps that Sam understood even without a solid grasp of their language. He waded out of the water, walking up the beach towards his guardian. Bee and Cliff stood together just above the high water line, and as he approached, his bonded handed him a towel. As he dried off, the three Autobots transformed back into the alt modes. Once he was no longer dripping wet, Sam laid the towel over Bumblebee’s seat and then climbed into his cabin. 

As they drove back to the Hive, Sam turned his attention towards the neural network. It was alight with _sensation_ and _feeling_ that piqued both his curiosity and his excitement. He stretched his mental presence outward, as far as he could, and then startled in surprise as he felt a gentle touch in his mind. It took him a moment to recognize Ironhide’s mental presence, but before he could brush against the weapon’s specialist, he felt another touch—and then another and another. It was an almost dizzying array of sensation. The mental presences pressed against him for a scant second, before withdrawing again. There was Ironhide’s signature, gun-smoke gray, followed by a flash of icy blue that could have been Prowl or Ultra Magnus, and then a copper-red glow that was immediately recognizable as Knock Out. As more signatures brushed against him, Sam became aware of impressions of _greeting_ and _welcome_ that accompanied them. He could not prevent the small smile that spread across his face, almost shyly. When Wheeljack’s sunshine-yellow signature wrapped around him with far more exuberance than the others, Sam laughed delightedly and _bumped_ him back.

That evening, Bumblebee could only stay with him for a short while before he had to leave. The scout’s leisure time had become more constrained as the date of the coup grew nearer. Sam did his best not to dwell on the upcoming battle. He was relieved that neither Ratchet nor Bumblebee would be engaging the enemy, but if not them, then others would be putting themselves at risk. As the days became weeks, more details about the plan solidified. Optimus and Ironhide would travel through the ground bridge to Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada. From there, the Autobots would drive three hours north to the community of Jasper, Nevada under the pretext of examining an abandoned missile silo for its suitability as an Autobot embassy. There, in the vast, uninhabited desert, Soundwave would propose an ambush on the Autobot troops. If Megatron took the bait and entered the field, then they would spring the trap: Autobot reinforcements that arrived days in advance, as well as the Decepticon Armada, would join the fight against the warlord. At the same time, the Command Trine and Soundwave would attempt to take control of the _Nemesis._

It was a fine plan in theory, but too much depended on Starscream’s trustworthiness for Sam’s peace of mind. He did his best not to dwell on it, instead throwing himself into his schoolwork with an intensity that eclipsed even his first university semester. 

His meetings with Karen continued twice every week. He was cagey and defensive or amenable and wry, depending on the day. To her credit, Karen took it all in stride. She offered either a shoulder to lean on, or a take-no-bullshit reality check as required, and Sam was thankful for it. When he broached the subject of the activation two weeks into the semester, Karen cocked her head and regarded him in silence. Stumbling over his words, Sam once again outlined why he should be allowed to attend, and once again, her lips thinned in disapproval. Despite himself, Sam winced apologetically and held up his hands. 

“Whatever you think.” He said, and he meant it. 

Karen seemed to consider his words, for her expression became pointed and searching. After a long moment, she replied, “I’ll discuss it with Ratchet and Prime, but I make no promises.” 

As the date of the activation drew closer, the atmosphere on the base became more strained. The mess hall was unusually quiet at meal times, with only the drone of hushed conversation and the occasional clink of cutlery to be heard. Even Dave Carter, whose genial temperament was almost unflappable, was drawn and serious. The time that they spent together in the agent’s office soon lost its lighthearted edge. Instead, they worked in near silence as they finalized the last arrangements for the deployment. It gave Sam a sickening twist of his stomach when the last forms were filed away—a procurement request for additional medical equipment to be transferred to Nellis Air Force base. 

That night, Sam’s sleep was restless for the first time in weeks. He tossed and turned for hours before he drifted off. His dreams, when they came, were ugly—snapshots of imagery and feeling that passed by in a disjointed, hellish slideshow. As Sam’s fear deepened to abject terror, Ratchet’s presence filled his mind, and a moment later, he found himself jolting upright in bed, gasping in fear and disorientation. Sam’s eyes darted wildly around the room, looking for familiar red optics, when his gaze settled on Ratchet’s holoform. The medic stood at the end of the bed, his expression a study in professional concern. All at once, Sam realized that he had been dreaming. 

He groaned softly, scrubbing a hand across his face as the tension drained out of his body. A glance at the clock revealed that it was quarter after six—early, yes, but too late to catch a few more hours of sleep. 

“Thanks, Ratch.” He managed at last. 

“You haven’t had a nightmare in some time.” The holoform observed shrewdly. 

“Yeah, I guess.” Sam replied, swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress. Ratchet watched as Sam pushed to his feet and stumbled across the room to his closet. He pulled open the doors, and stared considerately at the clothing that hung on hangers in a tidy row. He pushed aside three pairs of pants before he found a pair of jeans that would fit him comfortably, and then he yanked down a long-sleeved Henley. As he turned around, he found that Ratchet’s expression had warmed minutely. 

“You’re gaining weight.”

Sam huffed a laugh. It had been three weeks since the start of the semester, almost six weeks since his rescue from the _Nemesis_ , and his appetite had returned with a vengeance. He was constantly eating, whether the well-rounded meals that Ratchet preferred or, increasingly, pure junk. His penchant for spicy food took a back burner to the sweet tooth that he developed—he sometimes visited the commissary two or three times a day to purchase snacks. Ratchet grumbled about it but he didn’t protest, evidentially willing to trade nutritional value for calories. 

“Yeah.” Sam agreed good-naturedly, “My clothes are starting to get tight.” 

“You’ve gained nine and a half pounds, by my estimate.” Ratchet replied, which Sam interpreted to mean nine and a half pounds exactly, “A reasonable gain for this point in your recovery.”

“Only another twenty pounds or so to go.”

Ratchet made an agreeable sound, “You’ll be within the normal weight range for a man of your age and height in six pounds.”

“Practically recovered, then.” Sam teased. 

The holoform rolled his eyes but did not contradict him. Sam stepped around the bed, making to head for the bathroom, when the medic’s next words pulled him up short.

“I suppose that is why Prime has agreed to let you attend the activation.”

Sam pivoted on his heel, his arms full of clothing, and stared at the holoform in disbelief.

“What?”

“There’s nothing wrong with your ears. You heard me.”

Sam made a strangled sound of disbelief and then, between one moment and the next, he caught the holoform in a tight hug. He was aware of Ratchet’s emotions—surprise, exasperation, and fondness passed in quick succession—before Sam pulled away and stared earnestly up into his face.

“I’m ready, I know I am.”

“There are restrictions.” Ratchet warned, and Sam nodded eagerly, “You will only enter the command post under the supervision of Carter or Bumblebee. You will listen to what you are told, and obey their instructions without argument. If you react poorly or if you make a nuisance of yourself, then permission to attend activations will be rescinded. Do you understand?”

“Totally, yes, crystal clear.”

The holoform’s eyes roved over his face, his expression serious and searching, before he grunted in response.

“Very well. Bumblebee will retrieve you this afternoon.” Ratchet replied, and then a moment later, he disappeared. Sam stared at the space that the holoform had occupied before making a strangled sound of excitement. He gathered up his clothes and rushed into the bathroom, determined to shower and eat as quickly as possible.

So it was that Sam found himself in the command post later that evening. Dave Carter stood on his right, wearing a dark suit and a no-nonsense expression on his face, and Bumblebee stood on his left. Although the holoform was staring resolutely at the wall-to-wall display of monitors, Sam knew that his attention was focused solely on him. His posture was stiff as iron, and his arms were folded tightly across his chest.

The command post was a well-oiled machine. Technicians and support staff occupied their stations, talking quietly into their headsets as they prepared for the activation. Major Greer, who Sam recognized from that night, paced up and down the aisles, his sharp eyes taking in everything around him. The lights in the room were lowered, illuminating the many monitors that were affixed to the far wall. Sam’s eyes were focused on the large monitor that occupied the center of the wall. It showed body cam footage from Lennox, who was sitting in Ironhide’s cab in a large hangar on the Nellis Air Force base. As he watched, Optimus Prime walked into view of the camera and then transformed into his alt mode.

“Alright, here we go.” Carter murmured. 

Sam barely heard him. His pulse was racing with a mixture of anticipation and nervousness. A moment later, his breath caught in his throat as Optimus’ commanding voice crackled through his headset.

_“Autobots, roll out.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note** : The concept that the Autobot's English names are approximations of their Cybertronian designations is not my idea. For the life of me, however, I cannot find the story that inspired it. Also, Samuel really does mean "messenger of God" or "heard of God" and James really does mean "the one who follows". It was too interesting a parallel to ignore!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note** : Once again, please accept my apologies for the delay in getting this posted. This chapter was a challenging one to write, from both a research and an emotional perspective. At least I learned a lot about Nevada!
> 
>  **Chapter Warnings** : Canon-typical violence, minor character death.

Sam watched as Optimus accelerated out of the large hangar into the mellow, early morning light of southern Nevada. Nellis Air Force Base was located in the Mojave Desert, just north of Las Vegas. As Optimus made his way through the large compound, his alt mode kicked up great clouds of dust. The Autobot leader was traveling without his semi-trailer, and Ironhide followed just scant meters behind his rear wheels. Sam knew that a light utility vehicle with half a dozen NEST soldiers brought up the rear of their convoy. Shortly after they passed through the tall, chain-link fence that encircled the base, Optimus turned onto the US-95 North. Jasper, Nevada was located almost equidistant between Las Vegas and Reno. The agreed-upon spot for the ambush was over two hours away.

The monitors affixed to the wall showed a number of different video feeds. The center-most monitor, which was also the largest, displayed footage from Lennox’s body camera. The other monitors showed a variety of video feeds, from both Nevada and from Diego Garcia. The monitors on the right-hand side of the wall cycled through security camera footage around the base. The video feed changed every five seconds, as steady as a metronome. The monitors on the left-hand side of the wall showed body camera footage from the soldiers that had been deployed two days ago. Sam could make out Hot Rod’s cabin on one monitor, flashy and familiar, and Sideswipe’s cabin in another. As stealth was the most important factor for a successful ambush—well, stealth and Starscream’s trustworthiness, Sam amended—only the scouts that were capable of concealing their spark signatures had been deployed. That included Hot Rod and Sideswipe, as well as Cliffjumper and Sunstreaker. A support team, consisting of First Aid, Red Alert, and Inferno, had been stationed further away.

Sam glanced surreptitiously at Bumblebee. The holoform was standing rigidly, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes fixed on the video monitors. Sam did not need their bond to know that the scout was conflicted about being left behind. He had the most advanced egress filters of any of the Autobots, and he was the fastest scout under Optimus’ command. If it wasn’t for their spark bond, Bumblebee would have been deployed with the ambush patrol. Not for the first time, Sam knew a moment of profound insecurity. Bumblebee was a scout down to his core programming, and now he was unable to fulfill his role because of their bond—because of _him_.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Bumblebee turned to look at him reprovingly.

“Don’t think that.” Bumblebee admonished, “It’s not a risk that we’re willing to take.”

The “again” implied at the end of his sentence was left unspoken. Sam chewed the inside of his cheek, and then he gestured towards the monitors.

“Still, I know it’s hard for you to be here when they’re out there.”

Bumblebee glanced at the video feed and said, matter-of-factly, “They’re good. They won’t be detected.”

Sam did not reply. Whether the scouts were capable of completing the mission did not change the fact that it would have been Bumblebee in the field if circumstances had been different. It left Sam feeling relieved and guilty in equal measures, and he withdrew from the winter-white glow at the edge of his mind. He had no intention of distracting the scout with his insecurities during an activation.

Consciously ignoring his conflicted feelings, Sam turned his attention back towards the large monitor in the center of the wall. Lennox was sitting in the driver’s seat of Ironhide’s cab, his hand on the steering wheel, as they drove down the interstate. The Major was angled just enough for Sam to see the sweeping expanse of sandy desert that extended westwards towards the mountains. The craggy, rugged rocks rose up in the distance, shimmering in the heat like a mirage.

His thoughts were interrupted as a young-looking lieutenant stepped towards them. The man was fresh-faced and serious as he handed Carter a sheet of paper. The agent’s eyes roved over the document, and then he nodded and dismissed the soldier with a terse, “Thank-you.”

As the soldier stepped away, Carter glanced in his direction. Sam’s curiosity must have shown on his face, for he extended the document towards him a moment later.

“Sit-rep.” The agent explained without prompting.

Sam accepted the piece of paper, glancing at it as he did so. It was a memo with NEST and Autobot insignia at the top, followed by four lines of text. A cursory read revealed that the document outlined changes to the island’s patrols during the activation. As the scouts were currently deployed, the Elite Guard would accompany human soldiers back and forth to Barton Point. First Kup, then Jolt, then Chromia in rotation every four hours. When Sam looked up from the paper, Carter smiled at him.

“The sit-reps come every fifteen minutes during activations.”

“That often?” Sam asked, surprised. Carter raised a shoulder in a shrug.

“A lot can change in 15 minutes, as I know you’re aware.” Carter said with a smile, accepting the paper when Sam handed it back to him, “They can get pretty long, depending on the complexity of the mission.”

Before Sam could reply, Prowl’s voice cut through his headpiece.

“The Highway Patrol has cordoned off the interstate between Route 160 and Route 374. Local traffic has been re-routed. Risk to the civilian population is expected to be minimal.” The third-in-command’s voice was calm and matter-of-fact, “Estimated time of arrival: two hours, nine minutes given current traffic.”

Sam glanced at the left-most monitors. The scouts were waiting at Sugar Bunker, a decommissioned facility that was used during the Eisenhower administration. It was located just west of the Nevada Testing Site, about twenty miles from the highway. If the ambush went as planned, it would take the scouts four minutes at top speed to reach the interstate and join the battle.

After Prowl’s announcement, Sam lapsed into silence. He watched as Optimus and Ironhide traveled north, the wide sandy desert slowly transitioning to rolling valleys and then back again. The desert was interspersed with small buttes and large, towering mesas. It was a landscape of reddish sandstone that stretched as far north as he could see, eventually meeting the pale blue horizon. 

The command post worked in perfect coordination, silent except for the occasional order given by Major Greer and the drum of technicians typing at their computers. As the minutes ticked by, the anxiety in Sam’s stomach coiled tighter and tighter. He stood beside Bumblebee, his hands grasping the railing in front of them. The holoform glanced at him occasionally, his expression serious and searching, but he did not comment on Sam’s state of mind. Prowl’s voice ghosted over the comms in even intervals, noting the estimated time of arrival.

When the highway sign for Jasper, Nevada passed on the right, Sam took a fortifying breath. He knew that the ambush site was located just over thirty miles north of the little town. Less than five minutes later, Optimus and Ironhide slowed as they approached the Highway Patrol’s blockade. Uniformed officers stepped into the road in pairs, lifting the wooden partitions and dragging them onto the shoulder. Will raised two fingers of one hand in a nonchalant wave as they crossed the blockade. The officers nodded in response, their faces shaded by the wide brims of their hats.

Once Optimus had crossed the roadblock, he accelerated back to sixty-five miles per hour. A smile curled the corners of Sam’s mouth as he realized that the Autobot leader was adhering to the human convention of a speed limit, even on an empty highway. Although, ‘highway’ might have been too generous a term, Sam thought wryly. It was a single, two-lane road that stretched in a straight line for as far as he could see. There was no median, no off-ramps, no shoulders—it was no different from every remote road that he and Bumblebee had explored around Tranquility. The landscape was flat and sandy, interspersed with scrubby little creosote plants. In the distance, dark mountains rose up like the spikes of an Eastern Crown.

Suddenly, Prowl’s voice cut through Sam’s earpiece like the crack of a whip.

“Decepticon signatures approaching from west-southwest. They will be on your position in twenty seconds.” The strategist announced, causing Sam’s heart to lodge itself in his throat.

“It’s too soon, they’re still twenty miles from the ambush site.” Sam said, turning to look at Bumblebee.

“Tell that to Megatron.” Carter said grimly. In front of them, Greer pivoted on his heel and began to issue rapid-fire orders, which the technicians hurried to follow out. Sam turned back to the large monitor that occupied the center of the far wall. He could tell that Optimus and Ironhide had accelerated sharply, as the landscape around them passed by in a blur. Although he could not see Ironhide’s speedometer, they had to be driving over a hundred miles per hour.

Abruptly, the camera angle changed as Lennox turned to speak to Epps, who was buckled in the passenger seat. Although he could not hear what Lennox was saying, Bobby’s expression was foreboding. The Chief Master Sergeant nodded once, decisively, and reached down to grab the rucksack that rested at his feet. A moment later, Ironhide veered off the road and slammed on his breaks. The footage became confused, a dizzying jumble of images as Lennox and Epps scrambled out of the truck and jogged away. When at last the Major came to a stop, crouched in the sand as he began to assemble his weapon, Sam could see Ironhide peeling after Optimus. The Autobot leader had not stopped, evidentially determined to get as much distance between himself and Jasper as possible. Sam could see his red and blue plating in the distance, at least a half a mile from Lennox and Epps’ location.

Suddenly, Optimus engaged his air breaks. A great cloud of gray smoke rose from his rear tires as he turned, transforming before he had come to a complete stop. Sam watched in mounting horror as a black blur streaked across the sky. Megatron transformed in mid-air, tackling Optimus at Mach speeds. The two metal titans rolled across the desert, kicking up great plumes of dust and sand, completely obscuring them from sight.

* * *

Optimus landed hard, sliding across the ground. He grappled with the war frame on top of him, lashing out with a heavily armored servo. His visual display had erupted in a cascade of warning messages and damage reports. The latter, thankfully, were minor in nature and included superficial damage to his strut and chassis.

Megatron’s taloned digits dug painfully into the seam of his armor near his shoulder strut. Optimus retaliated by driving his servo into the warlord’s abdominal plating, once, twice, until his grip loosened. Optimus’ plasma sword slid out of its casing on his right arm, already glowing orange-red. He drove his fist towards Megatron’s side—the armor was weaker above the hip struts—but the Decepticon leader rolled into a low crouch, his faceplates spreading in a malicious smile.

“You remembered that, did you? After all of this time?”

Optimus’ optics narrowed in tightly leashed anger, but he did not rise to the gibe. Instead, he pushed himself to his pedes, moving quickly despite his significant size. He briefly turned his attention to the tactical communications network in order to send a status confirmation to Ironhide. The weapon’s specialist had _pinged_ him four times since Megatron’s attack, each with increasing urgency. The answering acknowledgement was laden with signifiers of _relief_ and _reassurance_. In the distance, Optimus could hear his engine approaching.

“Stand down, Megatron.” Optimus ordered, his voice a low growl behind his battle mask, “You are outnumbered.”

The Decepticon leader chuckled, seemingly amused by his demand.

“You have something of mine, Optimus. Return him, and I shall be merciful with your other insects.”

As he spoke, Megatron gestured vaguely but meaningfully to where Lennox, Epps, and the other soldiers were positioned. Optimus felt his fuel pump quicken in anger, and he reset his vocalizer before allowing himself to reply.

“You would speak of mercy? After what you have done?” He spat, his voice thick with enmity.

Megatron straightened to his full height, and they began to circle one another. The warlord’s red optics raked slowly up and down Optimus’ frame, searching for weakness. His posture was wary but confident. Optimus’ attention was briefly drawn to Ironhide, who was nearly upon them. As soon as his focus shifted, Megatron attacked. Optimus brought his arm up to deflect the blow that would have caved in his helm, grunting at the impact. Megatron struck again and again, driving him back several paces. Optimus braced his pedes against the sand, and shoved the warlord away from him. A moment later, Ironhide was at his side, battlemask engaged and arm-mounted canons glowing blue-white.

Megatron chuckled quietly, engaging his fusion canons as he began to stalk around them.

“The boy required a lesson, one that I gladly provided.” Megatron replied at last, “I might have killed him instead. Is that not merciful?”

Beside him, Ironhide bristled in rage at the obvious provocation. Optimus pinged him a wordless pulse of _restraint_ , narrowing his optics at the war frame in front of them. Before he could reply, however, he received notification from Prowl that the Command Trine was less than a klik away. With growing trepidation, Optimus realized that the Seekers would arrive well before his scouts did. If Starscream were to double-cross them, he and Ironhide would be at a significant disadvantage. He drew his electromagnetic fields close to his body, betraying nothing of his apprehension.

“Yield, Megatron, and you may yet learn the meaning of mercy.” Optimus rumbled darkly.

Megatron chuckled again, an oily, smug sound, as a proximity alert flashed across Optimus’ primary visual display. A moment later, the roar of the Seekers’ engines crackled across the valley as the three jets became visible in the distance.

“Yield? Whyever would I do that, Optimus?” Megatron replied, in faux confusion, “Reinforcements have arrived.” 

Optimus’ spark clenched in abject concern—the moment seemed frozen in time, like an insect suspended in amber—and then Starscream _pinged_ him a wordless acknowledgement. Relief flooded through his processors, and he returned the ping a moment later. The Command Trine banked hard, following the mountain chain around the desert valley. Optimus turned his full attention back towards the warlord standing scant meters away.

“That is true.” He rumbled, inclining his helm, “But they are not your reinforcements.”

Megatron stilled as the meaning of Optimus’ words became clear. He narrowed his red optics in the Seekers’ direction, his expression shifting from irritation to rage in quick succession. After a long moment, Megatron leveled him with a contemptuous look.

“It seems the boy is capable of eliciting great sympathy, even among his sworn enemies.” Megatron growled, the glow of his fusion canons brightening to incandescent white, “He reminds me much of Orion Pax in that regard.”

Optimus braced himself as he brought up his own weapons. Beside him, Ironhide rumbled ominously, tension in every line of his frame as he followed suit. Overhead, the Seekers’ banked a second time, swinging back in their direction. Optimus sent a wordless query to Prowl, who replied a moment later with confirmation of his troop’s positions—his reinforcements were less than a 800 meters away, the NEST soldiers were closer still.

“Surrender, Megatron. It is over.” Optimus demanded, moving to the warlord’s left as Ironhide circled to his right. Megatron spread his arms, keeping them both in weapon’s range.

“Never.” He spat, and the finality in his tone cut Optimus to his core, “This war will end with my victory or my death.”

Optimus resisted the urge to shutter his optics in pain. He had known that Megatron would not willingly surrender, not against any odds—he was a gladiator-class mechanoid, after all. Understanding what he must do, the Autobot leader ran an assessment of his battle protocols and injuries, and when the report came back clear, he transformed his left arm into his ion blaster.

“Very well.” He replied, optics narrowing over his battle mask, “If that is your choice.”

Optimus’ audials detected the sound of his scouts quickly approaching their position. Megatron seemed to detect them as well, for his expression became sharp and calculating. A moment later, Optimus was surprised when a ping came across a private comms frequency that had not been used in millennia. It brought with it a swell of melancholy that was almost painful in its intensity.

 _//Can you do it, Orion?//_ Megatron asked, his voice like a caress, _//Do you have it within you to extinguish my spark? The spark that was once beloved above all others?//_

Optimus reared back, his optics widening in shocked outrage at the warlord’s audacity. Megatron took advantage of his distraction, pivoting to drive his armored fist into Ironhide’s faceplates as he unleashed a volley from his fusion canon. Optimus dove to the side in time to avoid the brunt of the blast, but his primary visual display blinked with warnings about temperature damage and radiation. Optimus raised his weapon, unleashing three shots in quick succession. The first two went wide as Megatron and Ironhide grappled in the desert sand, but the third hit true. It exploded in a bright flash of fire and smoke against the Decepticon leader’s silver plating.

Megatron roared in pain, energon spraying from an arterial line in his back. The warlord clenched his servo, bringing it down across Ironhide’s helm again and again. Optimus could tell by the dazed expression on the weapon specialist’s face that the blows were gruesome. He dug his pedes into the ground, rushing forward to thrust his plasma sword towards Megatron’s sensitive side. At the last moment, the warlord deflected the blow with a swipe of his arm. Optimus’ sword went wide, and then Megatron was on him. The warlord drove a heavily armored servo into the junction of his chest and back plating, where the connectors were thinnest. The pain was immediate and intense, and he could feel the sensitive metal bend and give way. Optimus grabbed Megatron’s wrist joint, wrenching his arm aside, as he kneed him in the abdominal plating.

A moment later, there was the sound of squealing tires and rapid-fire transformation. A red and yellow blur was on Megatron in an instant, unleashing a volley of lightning-fast attacks. The warlord howled in fury, grasping for Hot Rod who clung to the warframe’s back. The cavalier dodged the clawed digits, pulling his vibroblade from between Megatron’s shoulder plating, before driving it in again. Ironhide pushed himself to his pedes, charging his arm-mounted canons until they glowed almost white. The weapon’s specialist kicked the back of Megatron’s knee joint, and the warlord fell onto the ground in front of him.

Almost as an afterthought, Optimus realized that they had won. He surveyed their surroundings with weary optics. Hot Rod and Ironhide stood over Megatron, who was uncharacteristically silent. The warlord’s servos clenched and unclenched in the sand, as a puddle of energon spread beneath him. The twins stood a short distance away, weapons primed and battlemasks engaged. The NEST soldiers stood in a loose semi-circle around the Transformers, their weapons raised and sights trained on the warlord.

 _//My Prime, you’re injured.//_ Cliffjumper pinged him, the message heavy with signifiers of guilt and concern as he came to Optimus’ side.

 _//The damage is minimal, Cliffjumper. I will recover.//_ Optimus replied, raising a servo to staunch the flow of energon that dripped down his chassis.

“Nice of Starscream to get his servos dirty.” Sideswipe remarked sarcastically, blue optics following the Command Trine as they flew a circuitous route around the valley.

As though the Air Commander had overhead the scout’s comment, he _pinged_ Optimus a terse message.

 _//Congratulations on your victory, Prime.//_ He said, dry courtesy in his voice, _//But we still have the_ Nemesis _to claim.//_

Optimus inclined his helm minutely as Ironhide subspaced a pair of stasis cuffs. The weapon’s specialist had a savage smile on his face, all dentae and no humor.

 _//You have my thanks.//_ Optimus replied, and he layered the message with signifiers of _sincerity_.

The scoff in response was almost perfunctory in nature, and then the connection between them blinked away. The Command Trine turned sharply, in perfect unison, and with a roar of their engines, they disappeared over the ridge of the mountains. Optimus knew that the battle was just beginning for the Armada—they would face heavy resistance from the ground-frames who were loyal to Megatron. It would not be an easy victory for them.

With a heavy sigh, Optimus turned his attention back to the matter at hand. He retracted his weapons, and looked down at Megatron. The warlord was staring up at him, red optics bright in an otherwise inscrutable face. His hands were pressed against his plating, energon flowing freely between his digits. The sight caused Optimus’ spark to clench in pain, but with conscious effort, he steeled himself.

“Megatron, as Supreme Commander of the Autobots and bearer of the Matrix of Leadership, I accept your surrender.”

Megatron rumbled lowly in his chassis. It might have been a laugh or a growl, it was impossible to tell.

“You spoke to me of mercy.” Megatron said at last, and his voice was steady despite the energon that he had lost, “It would be more merciful for you to execute me, here and now.”

“Coward.” Sunstreaker spat. The warrior’s fields were flaring with a mixture of _hostility_ and _aggression_.

Optimus directed a quelling look in Sunstreaker’s direction, before turning to regard the warlord on his knees in front of them. 

“You will be judged for your crimes according to the rule of Cybertronian law.” Optimus rumbled, cold and dignified, “Your sentence shall be determined by a jury of your peers.”

Megatron chuckled quietly, an ominous sound.

“You misunderstand. My words are a warning, not a plea.” Megatron rasped, his vocoder finally succumbing to the extent of his injuries, “When my Decepticons rise up to free me, I will wreak my vengeance across this planet.” The warlord pushed himself to his knees, leveling a flat look at Optimus as he hissed, “The insects that you so adore will beg for something as merciful as death.”

Optimus stilled, his fuel-pump quickening as righteous anger flashed through his processors. The Autobot leader narrowed his optics, and when he finally spoke, his voice was a dark growl.

“See to the prisoner’s injuries and prepare him for transport.” He commanded, “Red Alert, assemble the ground bridge.”

First Aid moved forward without further prompting, kneeling beside Megatron as he began to solder the energon lines that had been severed in his back. The red and white medic worked in silence, his servos wrist-deep in the war frame’s plating. To Optimus’ surprise, Megatron neither struggled nor protested. Instead, the warlord watched him with unblinking optics, his expression impossible to decipher. Optimus turned away, striding across the desert towards Major Lennox and Chief Master Sergeant Epps. The humans were red-faced and sweating profusely, but a cursory scan indicated that their vitals were all within an acceptable range.

“Status report, Major.” Optimus rumbled as he approached.

Major Lennox squinted up at him, his semi-automatic weapon held loosely across his chest.

“Nothing of any significance to report, Prime. My men are all present and accounted for, no injuries.”

“No wonder.” Epps returned dryly, “We hauled ass across the desert, and the fight was over by the time we got here.”

Optimus felt a twist of emotion, deep in his chassis, at the Chief’s cavalier attitude. It wasn’t anger or grief or offense, but it was visceral and sharp. Before he could reply, however, his audials detected the sound of an aircraft. He frowned minutely, extending his sensory array to its maximum extent. He could not detect any Decepticon signatures in the vicinity, but there was no doubt that an aircraft was rapidly approaching from the east.

Lennox glanced in the direction of the noise, raising a hand to shield his eyes.

“Are we expecting company?” He asked, confusedly.

“Not to my knowledge.” Optimus replied, sending a medium-priority alert to the tactical network. His message was met with a flurry of _pings_ in acknowledgement.

“That’s a HueyCobra.” Epps announced abruptly, and there was an edge of tension in his voice, “It’s an attack helicopter.”

Optimus filed the information into a packet, and sent it to the tactical network flagged as high-priority. As a matter of prudence, he keyed up his battle protocols.

Lennox set his jaw, gripping his weapon tightly, “Is it friendly?”

“It is not a Decepticon.” Optimus replied, his optics narrowing in the helicopter’s direction.

“We have incoming.” Lieutenant Killian Anderson said sharply, motioning to the cloud of sand that was growing larger in the distance.

“Anyone else got a bad feeling about this?” Epps asked rhetorically, fingering his weapon.

“I don’t feel great about it.” Lennox replied, motioning to his troops, “Hustle up, spread out. Be on alert.”

The soldiers obeyed his command immediately, and they spread out across the road in both directions. The cloud of sand in the distance slowly resolved into three light armored vehicles. Optimus recognized the beige trucks as military Humvees—troop transports, if his optics did not deceive him. Hot Rod stepped into the road, his pedes spread wide in a stabilizing stance. His arms hung loosely at his sides, but his battlemask was engaged and his weapons were out.

“ _Jesus Christ!”_ Anderson hollered, his weapon coming up, “Look out!”

Optimus’ helm snapped back in the direction of the attack helicopter in time to see two missiles detach from its underbelly and streak towards them. He knew that the HueyCobra was outfitted with sixteen Hellfire missiles, which had a casualty radius of 300 feet. He turned, grabbing Lennox and Epps, who were the two humans closest to him, and pulled them near his chassis. Behind him, he could hear the sound of shouting and rapid-fire transformation.

A moment later, the world exploded in a riot of noise and light.

* * *

Sam watched in horror as the missiles detonated—and then the video feed died. A dozen monitors on the far wall flickered and went black, including Lennox’s body camera. Every person in the room sat frozen, staring in disbelief at the blank monitors. After that, everything happened very quickly. Major Greer took control of the room immediately, issuing sharp orders to his subordinates to get the communications lines operational. He directed one harried looking technician to get on the horn with the SecDef to “Find out what the hell is going on!”

Beside him, Bumblebee stood stock-still, his expression a maelstrom of emotion. Sam reached out for him, brushing tentatively across his mental presence. For the first time since they bonded, Bumblebee pulled away, his spark signature becoming muted and closed-off. It was not fast enough to hide the agony that the scout was feeling—his rage and grief and guilt. Sam let him go without comment, sending a wordless pulse of _reassurance_ towards him. Ratchet’s mental presence was no better—their bond throbbed with his worry and anger. Whereas Bumblebee’s emotions had been jagged and sharp, however, Ratchet’s emotions roiled dangerously. It was a like a pot of shimmering water, capable of boiling over at any moment.

Sam withdrew as far as the bonds would allow, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.

At his side, Carter spoke in rapid Hindi into his headset. His eyes were narrowed, and his shoulders were a line of tension. The usually easy-going agent had seemingly transformed—in his place was a soldier, one who wanted answers immediately. After a long moment, Carter cupped his hand over the microphone by his mouth and glanced at Bumblebee.

“The Indian Ministry of Defense will let us piggyback off the GSAT-30 satellite. It should give us eyes on Nevada.”

“What about the Americans?” Sam asked.

Carter shook his head minutely, “The American government won’t allow any foreign nation to access its satellites after Soundwave hijacked their network.”

Sam’s mouth twisted in anger. The attack had happened on American soil, seemingly with an American military helicopter. Now they wouldn’t give the Autobots access to their satellites to confirm whether any of them were still alive?

Before Sam could spit out a scathing reply, Bumblebee stiffened beside him. In perfect unison, he and Carter turned to look at the holoform in anxious anticipation.

“The unknown assailants released four missiles and then opened fire with automatic weapons.” Bumblebee said, his voice tight and grim, “Optimus ordered the scouts to return fire and fall back. The ground bridge will be operational shortly.”

Carter nodded sharply, and then turned on his heel and jogged out of the command post. As the agent left the room, Major Greer’s hand fell away from his earpiece, from which he had evidentially received the same information. He began to issue orders for the medical corps to bring emergency supplies to the ground bridge hangar.

Sam turned to look at Bumblebee, his face stricken.

“What do we do?”

“There’s nothing you can do, Sam.” Bumblebee replied quietly.

The holoform’s tone pulled Sam up short. It was equal parts matter-of-fact and no-nonsense, as though his words were final. Something about it rankled Sam, and his mouth turned down at the corners.

“I’m not a solider, but—“

“But nothing.” Bumblebee replied sharply, turning to look at him, “You have no medical training or combat experience. There’s nothing you can do.”

Sam flinched slightly, and fell silent. The following hours passed by in a miserable blur. It took the better part of twenty minutes before the ground bridge was operational. Their long-range communications remained inoperable, and information could only be shared _via_ the Autobot’s tactical network. Sam came to learn that there were several critical injuries, including Hot Rod, Sunstreaker, and Megatron. The knowledge that the Decepticon leader might well bleed out gave him a strange twist in his stomach. Among the humans, Will Lennox and Robert Epps had been unscathed, owing to Optimus’ quick actions, but Killian Anderson and three Marines had sustained critical injuries—Killian, in the explosion, and the others in the gunfire that followed.

The Secretary of Defense was quick to condemn the attack as the actions of a splinter group that were in no way associated with or sanctioned by the United States’ government. He offered his sympathies for their causalities, but he was unable to say how his administration would respond. Even to Sam, who had precious little experience with statecraft, the message seemed bureaucratic and stilted.

Sometime after midnight, Carter returned to the command post. The agent looked haggard, and when he came to a stop beside Sam and Bumblebee, he shared a look with the holoform that Sam could not interpret.

“What is it?” He asked, pushing away from the railing.

“Sam, let’s take a walk.” Carter said, gesturing towards the door. The agent’s voice was soft, and it sent warning bells off in his head immediately.

“What’s happened?” Sam asked flatly, “Tell me.”

Bumblebee stepped close to him, his hand coming up to squeeze Sam’s shoulder. Carter sighed softly, scrubbing his hand over his face.

“I’m sorry, Sam. Killian Anderson just died.”

Sam blinked at Carter uncomprehendingly. He had just seen Killian that morning, when the redheaded Marine had been preparing for the activation. He had been just as foul-mouthed and cheeky as he had always been.

“What?” He managed at last.

“His injuries were too extensive, he coded on the table.”

Sam felt his stomach drop into his feet. He waited for the tsunami of grief that he knew should come, but there was nothing—just a strange apathy that left him feeling flushed and nauseous. He cleared his throat and nodded slowly.

“Okay, I understand.” And then, because Killian had been Dave’s friend too, he asked, “Are you alright?”

Dave’s eyes flitted over Sam’s face, as though trying to determine whether he was about to have a meltdown. Eventually, the agent sighed and raised his hands in a helpless shrug.

“No, but there’s work to do.” He replied truthfully, “Grief will have to wait.”

Sam grimaced faintly, but he understood the sentiment.

“Yeah, I guess so.” He replied, and Bumblebee gave his shoulder another squeeze.

The three of them spent the rest of the night in the darkened command post. It was silent, except for the drone of hushed talking and the hum of computer equipment. It wasn’t until Sam made his way back to his apartment late the next morning that his grief finally made itself known. It came on hard and fast, breaking over him like a wave upon the shore. He cried like a child for what felt like an eternity. Eventually, Bumblebee was able to coax him into bed, but it was a long time before he fell into a troubled sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note** : If you're so interested, the battle took place in the Amargosa Valley of Nye County, Nevada. Google Map it, it's a barren wasteland. Also, Sugar Bunker and the Nevada Testing Site are real, and super interesting to read about.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note** : Thank-you all so much for your kindness and support in what is proving to be a tumultuous time. I am astonished that people are still reading and enjoying this story after 330k words.

Sam woke to the feeling of someone gently shaking his shoulder. He was wide-awake in an instant, blinking his eyes open to the sight of Bumblebee crouching at his bedside. The holoform’s expression softened as soon as he realized that Sam was awake.

“I’m sorry.” He apologized quietly, “You’re needed at the command center.”

Sam’s heart started to beat faster in his chest as the memories of the previous evening came rushing back to him. The activation, the ambush, the attack. Killian. He pushed the blankets away and sat up, scrubbing a hand over his face. A glance at the clock on his bedside table revealed that it was just after three o’clock in the afternoon.

“Yeah, okay.” Sam said, voice hoarse from lack of sleep, “Do I have time to shower?”

“Quickly. Prime is waiting for you to announce what they’ve learned about the attack.”

“Alright.” Sam said, pushing himself to his feet, “What happened while I was asleep?”

Bumblebee straightened from his crouch, watching as Sam crossed the room to the closet.

“Hot Rod is out of surgery. The damage to his chassis and leg strut was extensive, but Ratchet is confident that he will make a full recovery. Sunstreaker took the brunt of the second missile strike. They’re still working on him.”

Sam pulled a pair of slacks and a shirt that were more business casual than casual from his closet, turning to frown at Bumblebee as he did so.

“He’ll be okay though, right?”

Bumblebee’s expression was unreadable, “It’s too soon to say.”

Sam swallowed around the emotion that thickened his throat, turning fully to face the holoform.

“Poor Sideswipe.” He murmured. He couldn’t imagine what the scout was going through, waiting to learn whether his twin would survive.

Bumblebee inclined his head in acknowledgement, but otherwise he did not reply. Although his mental presence was withdrawn, Sam could not mistake the painful twist of _guilt-worry-anger_ that radiated across their bond. He squeezed the bundle of clothing against his chest. He wanted to reach out and comfort Bumblebee, but he was unsure whether his support would be welcome.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Bumblebee’s expression became stricken. He crossed the space between them, grasping Sam’s shoulders in warm hands.

“You are always welcome.” He said fiercely, giving him a squeeze, “Always, Sam.”

Sam looked up into the holoform’s face, brown eyes meeting blue-gray. Bumblebee’s expression was pained and earnest. Sam stepped forward slowly, giving him the chance to pull away, before wrapping his arms around his torso. Bumblebee went still, and then he returned the embrace.

“I’m sorry, Bee.” Sam said, his chin resting on the holoform’s shoulder, “Sorry that you couldn’t be there to help them, sorry about Hot Rod and Sunstreaker. I’m just… sorry.”

Bumblebee’s arms tightened around his body, pulling him closer.

“Thank-you.” He murmured, roughly.

They stood there for a long moment, offering each other comfort and reassurance without saying a word. Eventually, Bumblebee pulled away, his mental presence tinged with regret.

“I’m sorry, Sam, but we have to hurry.” He said.

Sam nodded once, and then made his way into the bathroom. He relieved himself and then turned on the shower, stepping into the stream of water before it had finished heating. The feeling of lukewarm water cascading over his shoulders sent a shudder down his spine. He turned his attention inwards, focusing on the Creator bonds that connected with his mind. His bond with Ratchet was warm and familiar, although the medic’s mental presence was closed off from him—it had been ever since the first causalities came through the ground bridge. His bond with Megatron, although structurally identical, was something else entirely. The warlord’s mental presence was dim and quiet, a faint glimmer at the edge of his mind. Although Megatron was in stasis lock, the feeling of their bond, active once again, made Sam’s skin crawl. He pulled away as far as their connection would allow, focusing his attention on showering as quickly as possible.

It was less than ten minutes later that he stepped into the living room, fully dressed and ready to go. As he toed on his shoes and pulled the lanyard over his head, Bumblebee handed him a coffee and a pastry. The disposable cup was warm to the touch, and Sam bit back a groan of appreciation. Bumblebee quirked a smile at him, and then opened the door to his apartment. Sam ate the pastry as they walked, washing it down with the coffee—light roast, two sugars, one milk. Just the way he liked it. By the time that they stepped onto the bridge, Sam felt marginally more prepared for whatever was to come. Bumblebee was waiting in his alt mode, gleaming yellow in the bright corridor. As soon as Sam settled into the driver’s seat, Bumblebee engaged his engine and accelerated towards West Quad. 

Sam sipped his coffee as they drove, enjoying the way that it warmed him from the inside out. Bumblebee drove more quickly than usual through the long, cavernous tunnel. Pedestrian traffic was scarce, and the few people who made their way through the bridge stayed well to one side of the corridor. West Quad was busier, with both pedestrian and vehicle traffic. Sam turned his head as they passed the medical bay, anxiety churning in his gut at the sight of the closed doors. Although he could not see inside the hangar, he could make out the spark signatures of its occupants. There was Ratchet, whose warm, light glow was so familiar, but First Aid, Hoist, and Knock Out were there as well. Deeper inside the room was a fifth signature that glowed pale lavender. Even from a distance, it radiated calm and determination. Sam had to focus in order to make out the signatures of Hot Rod, Sunstreaker, and Megatron. Their mental presences were barely visible in the darkness of the neural network.

Sam turned to look at the dash, confusion furrowing his brow.

“Who’s in there with them?”

“Ambulon.” Bumblebee replied. The scout’s answer caused Sam’s eyebrows to raise in surprise. He had not yet met the field medic, but Sam knew that he had been instrumental in his rescue.

Bumblebee continued through West Quad as Sam finished his coffee in silence. As the Camaro pulled into the large hangar, which was bustling with humans and Autobots alike, Sam steeled himself with grim determination. As soon as Bumblebee came to a stop, Sam climbed out of the cab and made his way onto the gantry that ran the length of the wall. He tossed his coffee cup into a garbage can as he passed, walking to the spot near logistics that overlooked the large conference table in the center of the room. He was unsurprised to see that Dave and Will were already there. Carter looked tired and worn, but his appearance was otherwise no different than usual. Lennox, on the other hand, looked haggard. The Major’s face was a mottled tapestry of cuts and bruises, and circles darkened the skin beneath his eyes.

“Hey.” Sam greeted quietly, and both men turned to look at him as he approached.

“Hey Sam, welcome back.” Carter replied.

Will nodded at him, arms folded over his chest. He was wearing military fatigues, his shirt rolled up to his elbows. Sam’s eyes were drawn to the bandage that was wrapped around his forearm, the gauze dark with blood beneath the adhesive. He hesitated, trying to find the words to express his regret. Killian had been Will’s friend since long before Mission City—they had been through a lot together. Before Sam could speak, however, Optimus’ commanding baritone cut through the din of the command center.

“This has been a difficult day.” He began, as silence immediately fell across the large room, “Although our mission was a success, it came at a terrible cost. Lieutenant Killian Anderson and Corporal Jason McMillian have died in the line of duty. We honor their bravery and their sacrifice.”

Optimus stood at the head of the conference table, Jazz at his right-hand side. Sam was unable to stop himself from staring at the second-in-command, who he had not seen since the mausoleum. The silver saboteur stood with his arms folded over his chassis, surveying the room with sharp optics. He looked the same as Sam remembered from the Battle of Mission City.

As though summoned by his thoughts, Jazz glanced in his direction. A flush spread across Sam’s face as their gazes met, and he resisted the urge to duck his head or look away. The second-in-command’s mouthplates quirked in a smile, and he jerked his chin upwards in greeting. Before Sam could respond, Jazz turned back towards Optimus.

“In addition to the loss of our comrades, four others are in critical condition and more still have sustained serious injuries.” Optimus continued, dignified and solemn, “All as the result of an unprovoked attack by an American militia splinter-group, codenamed MECH.” As he spoke, a two-dimensional holoform shimmered to life above the conference table. It was an image of an older man, with a square jaw and grizzled-gray hair cut short in military fashion. “Intelligence provided by the United States identifies this man, former Army Colonel Leland Bishop, codename Silas, as its leader.”

Sam’s throat thickened with emotion as he stared at the man responsible for the death of his friend. Beside him, Will audibly inhaled. He glanced sidelong at the Major, and was taken aback by the coldness that he saw on his face. There was a quiet intentness about his expression, a strange sort of forbearance. After a moment, Sam realized that it reminded him of the way Ironhide had looked at Ripcord as he lay dying on the hangar floor.

“MECH has posted a video to social media claiming responsibility for the attack. They indicate that their goal is to overthrow the American government, and instill a new world order.” Optimus said, pulling Sam out of his reverie, “As a result, the President of the United States has directed the Secretary of Defense and the Secretary of Homeland Security to do whatever is necessary to respond to this threat.”

There was a peculiar note in Optimus’ tone, and Sam frowned faintly in response. He turned his attention towards the neural-network, reaching out with his mind, before jerking away in surprise. Although restrained, the Autobot leader’s mental presence radiated a complicated mixture of emotion—disappointment and displeasure, chief among them.

All at once, Sam realized that Optimus Prime was royally pissed off.

The United States’ government had been more than happy to utilize the Autobots to their benefit, when it served their purposes. They had readily accepted Optimus’ help to hunt down and root out any Decepticons that threatened their agenda. Yet, as soon as the tables turned and it was the Autobots in need of assistance, the States had been absent at best and openly hostile at worst. Last night, the Secretary of Defense had expressed his condolences, but had been unwilling to commit to further military action. Now that the threat was directed at their own government, however, it seemed that the tables had turned.

“We will work with our American allies to ensure that those who killed Lieutenant Anderson and Corporal McMillian are held accountable for their crimes.” Optimus continued, inclining his helm, “For although I cannot give their families peace, I will do whatever is necessary to give them justice.”

By the time that Optimus had finished speaking, his voice was a low rumble. The sound of it caused the hairs on the back of Sam’s arms to stand up. Instinctively, he glanced in Bumblebee’s direction. The Autobots stood according to rank around the long boat-shaped desk. Prowl, Ultra Magnus, and Ironhide stood near Prime, while the scouts, soldiers, and cavaliers stood further away. As soon as Sam looked in his direction, Bumblebee turned his helm and met his gaze. At the same moment, the scout brushed across Sam’s mind in affirmation. The touch was soothing, and Sam leaned into it gratefully.

“At the President’s request, I have extended an invitation to the National Security Advisor. The Director will serve as our liaison to the United States’ Intelligence Community.”

Sam’s head snapped back in Optimus’ direction, shock and anger coursing through him in an instant.

“You invited _Galloway_ here?” He demanded, incredulously.

Optimus turned to regard him, his expression inscrutable. Sam felt warmth steal up his neck and across his face as he realized the impudence of his question. He opened his mouth to stammer an apology, when Optimus’ mental presence brushed against his mind. The touch was reserved, overlaid with signifiers of _empathy_ and _restraint_. Sam understood the gentle rebuke for what it was.

“Director Galloway no longer occupies the position of National Security Advisor.” Optimus replied, “The position is currently held by Interim Director Charlotte Mearing.”

As soon as the words left Optimus’ vocalizer, Sam was blindsided by the swell of emotion from Bumblebee. He turned to look at the scout in surprise, and was taken aback by his appearance. Tension radiated from every line of his frame—even his wingflaps trembled with barely restrained emotion. Sam turned his attention inwards, nudging concernedly at the winter-white glow at the edge of his mind. There was no mistaking the tumultuous mixture of _surprise-joy-uncertainty_ that he felt there.

 _//Bee?//_ He asked, _//What is it?//_

Sam could feel Bumblebee gather himself with concerted effort, and a moment later, the flood of emotion across their bond reduced to a trickle. When at last the scout replied, his voice was restrained.

_//I know her.//_

Sam’s brow furrowed in confusion, _//What do you mean you know her?//_

_//We met after I arrived on Earth, although she went by Charlie then.//_

Sam’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

_//There’s a story there, I take it.//_

_//You could say that.//_ Bumblebee replied enigmatically, _//I’ll explain it all later.//_

Sam brushed against the warm glow in his mind, projecting understanding and support to the best of his ability. His attention was drawn back to the conference table as the image of Silas disappeared and a three-dimensional rendering of the _Nemesis_ took its place. The sight of the warship caused his knees to go rubbery, and he had to grasp the railing with both hands to steady himself.

“We have received confirmation that the Command Trine has seized the _Nemesis_ from Megatron’s soldiers. The victory was not without cost, however.” Optimus rumbled, inclining his helm towards Jazz. The second-in-command stepped forward, and the image enlarged as red lines encircled several parts of the ship.

“The Decepticons managed to secure the _Upstart_ , a small dropship with transwarp capabilities. Although she doesn’t match the _Nemesis_ or the _Ark_ in terms of firepower or shielding, she’s still a warship—and a saucy little thing at that.” Jazz said, gesturing at the hologram. As the image enlarged again, Sam could see scorching along the _Nemesis’_ hull, “As expected, most of the ground-frames stayed loyal to Megatron. This includes Shockwave, Barricade, Quake, Mixmaster, Hook, and Bonecrusher, but Slipstream and Blitzwing defected from the Armada as well.”

Sam frowned faintly, turning to look at Will.

“Bonecrusher?” He asked quietly, “I thought Optimus killed him.”

Will shook his head without looking away from the hologram, “He’s damn hard to kill. Optimus decapitated him, but it didn’t do the job.”

“That leaves the Command Trine, Soundwave, Dirge, Acid Storm, Detour and Breakdown onboard the _Nemesis_.” Jazz continued, “Soundwave reports that Thundercracker and Acid Storm sustained serious injuries during the assault. He has requested medical assistance, and Optimus has agreed to provide it. The _Nemesis_ is expected to arrive later today.”

“What’s the armament of the _Upstart?_ ” Will asked, voice pitched to carry across the hangar.

“It’s not insignificant.” Jazz replied, bending down to type something into the touchpad in front of him. The _Nemesis_ disappeared, an image of a small, saucer-like ship appearing in its place, “The _Upstart_ is a dropship, intended to inject troops behind enemy lines. She was built for stealth and speed, but she still has two laser turrets, an ion canon, and an assortment of explosives.”

“Her weaponry is a concern, but the more pressing issue is her warpdrive.” Prowl put in, “With transwarp capabilities, Decepticon troops can teleport to the island, virtually circumventing the energon detection grid.”

“So we’ll have no warning of an incoming attack.” Will surmised, his jaw tight.

“Our only warning will be their opening volley.” Prowl agreed, “The energy barrier can withstand a full frontal assault for a short period, but not for an extended siege.”

Sam felt familiar anxiety curling in his stomach, and he asked, quietly, “Will they come for Megatron?”

Optimus turned to regard him, his visage solemn and serious.

“It is not a question of whether they will come, but when.” He rumbled, “Shockwave and Barricade are Megatron’s most loyal lieutenants.”

“Alright, so where does that leave us?” Will asked.

“We’re in good shape to withstand an assault.” Jazz replied, “We’re entrenched, well supplied, and well defended. Although the energy barrier can’t withstand a sustained attack, it will provide the time necessary to marshal a response. At present, we outnumber the Decepticons, in terms of both ground troops and weaponry.”

“At present?” Will asked, shrewdly.

Jazz glanced at Optimus, and the Autobot leader inclined his helm. The second-in-command raised his pauldrons in a shrug.

“Shockwave sent a distress call into space as soon as he realized that Starscream had orchestrated the coup. It might be nothing—Starscream seems unconcerned.”

“Might be nothing means that it could be something.” Will observed mildly.

“Right you are, Major.” Jazz replied, “Among his many talents, Shockwave is a gifted engineer. He helped to develop space bridge technology as the lead scientist in Koan.”

“Space bridge.” Will repeated flatly, “I assume its name is self-explanatory?”

“It sure is.” Jazz acknowledged, “And that would be troubling in and of itself, but paired with the fact that Shockwave was responsible for positioning Decepticon troops, and we might have a real problem on our hands.”

Sam’s breath stuttered out of him as the implications of Jazz’s words became clear. Shockwave knew the location of Decepticon reinforcements, and he was capable of building the technology to bring them here. Beside him, Will worked his jaw as he seemed to consider the second-in-command’s words.

“If Shockwave can space bridge reinforcements, why hasn’t he done so already?”

Prowl inclined his helm, “That is the crux of the matter, although we can only speculate as to the reason. It is possible that bridging reinforcements was too cost-intensive, or it would weaken Decepticon control over other sectors, or perhaps the troops nearest to Earth are untrustworthy. Starscream is not the only Decepticon who has optics for leadership.”

“Now is not the time to squander our energies on hearsay and conjecture.” Optimus cut in, “If a strike force arrives, then we will respond with necessary force.” The Autobot leader paused, his optics slowly sweeping across the large room, “Meanwhile, we will continue to strengthen our position and prepare for conflict. I am ordering the island to a Level 2 activation. I am also relocating non-essential personnel for its duration. Colonel Craddock has graciously agreed to house our civilian support staff at Nellis Air Force Base.”

Optimus turned his helm, nodding at Prowl. The third-in-command stepped towards the table, and a moment later, the three-dimensional rendering of the _Upstart_ disappeared, replaced with a topographic projection of Diego Garcia.

“Patrols of the island will increase to every four hours, and our airspace is now closed to all but high-priority traffic. Ironhide and Major Lennox will begin training drills immediately. Shockwave and Motormaster are berserkers, and they require a different tactical approach than most front-liners. Prime has also ordered the engineers to work on improving the durability of our energy shield, in the event of a full frontal assault on the base.”

“To prepare for that possibility, we will also begin running drills with the _Ark._ She’s at seventy percent capacity, and if necessary, could engage in aerial combat.” Jazz continued, “Kup and Wheeljack have been working on her armament for a while now. It’s time to stretch her legs a bit, see what she can do.”

Optimus inclined his helm in appreciation as Jazz finished speaking. He looked at the three-dimensional projection of the island for a long moment, and then turned to survey the room.

“As a member-state of the United Nations, it is also our responsibility to ensure that our human allies are informed about the possibility of an attack. We cannot allow our preparations to be misconstrued as an act of aggression. As a result, I have requested an emergency meeting of the UN Security Council. If a consultation is granted, I will personally travel to New York City to attend.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose of their own accord at the Autobot leader’s words. He knew that Optimus had engaged with world leaders before, usually by telephone but occasionally by video conference. To his knowledge, however, this would be his first time doing so in a public capacity.

“You have your orders.” Optimus concluded, a clear dismissal if Sam had ever heard one, “We prepare for the _Nemesis’_ arrival this evening, and Director Mearing’s arrival tomorrow morning.”

As soon as he finished speaking, Jazz stepped close to the Autobot leader and began murmuring in an undertone. Prowl stood nearby, listening to the second-in-command, but saying nothing in reply. Both humans and Autobots began to file out of the command center, hurrying to complete their orders. Sam turned, leaning back against the scaffold railing, and smiling wanly at Carter.

“So, I assume you’re going to New York?”

Carter huffed a laugh, but it sounded tired to Sam’s ears.

“Yeah. I’ve been to a few of the public consultations. It’s a lot of bureaucracy and grand-standing, but I hear it’s not as bad during closed sessions.”

Sam winced at him sympathetically.

“Sounds brutal. Well, bring me back something nice.”

The personal aid looked at him in surprise, something like confusion furrowing his brow. Before he could reply, however, Optimus stepped up to the scaffold. The Autobot leader cleared his intakes, inclining his helm as though in apology for the interruption. 

“Sam, I must speak with you.” Optimus rumbled.

Will and Dave exchanged a look, before they withdrew. The two men walked together down the gantry towards the stairs, leaving Sam alone with the Autobot leader. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, suddenly aware of the gravity of Optimus’ gaze.

“What’s up, Optimus?”

The large mechanoid ex-vented a soft sigh, and warm air washed over Sam’s face.

“I wished to express my condolences for your loss. I understand that you and the Lieutenant were friends.”

Sam felt a flush spread across his face, and he pushed his hands into the pockets of his pants.

“Yeah, we were.” He replied, trying for stoicism and falling short, “He was a good guy.”

Optimus inclined his helm, azure optics shining with some undefined emotion, “He was a talented soldier and a valuable ally. He will be missed.”

Although the words might have sounded trite and clichéd from anyone else, they carried a note of solemn regard when spoken by the Autobot leader. Sam had no doubt of his sincerity. 

“Thanks.” He said softly.

Optimus visibly hesitated, and something about his countenance set warning bells off in Sam’s head. He stiffened in response, unable to prevent the defensive posturing. Optimus’ optics spiraled down to points, and Sam knew that his body had betrayed his sudden anxiety. 

“I understand how difficult the next few days will be for you.” Optimus began apologetically, “A Creator bond is a permanent fixture, one that not even Ratchet can circumvent.”

“I know.” Sam replied, unsure of what the Autobot leader was getting at. He knew that his bond with Megatron was permanent.

“Megatron’s injuries are severe, but he will recover. When that happens, he must be kept in a maximum security facility to prevent his rescue or escape.” Optimus explained, and Sam had a glimmer of where this was headed, “The _Ark_ is not equipped to house him.”

Sam closed his eyes, grief and anxiety and anger crashing through him all at once.

“But the Hive is.” He surmised quietly. 

Optimus inclined his helm in acknowledgement.

“I have ordered a containment cell to be constructed in the West Quad.” Optimus rumbled, “Megatron will be held there for the foreseeable future.”

Sam nodded faintly, but Optimus continued before he could say anything.

“I am making preparations for you to leave Diego Garcia. I cannot sever the tie that binds you to Megatron, but I can ensure you remain away from his influence.”

Sam stared up at the Autobot leader in shock, unable to comprehend what he was hearing. He was distantly aware of the way that his heart had started to pound in his throat, his anxiety sharpening into fear.

“What do you mean _leave_?” He snapped.

“So long as you are both on the island, you will be at his mercy.”

Sam made a strangled sound as he stepped away from the Autobot leader.

“After everything I’ve gone through, after everything I’ve done, you’re just casting me away?” He demanded, mortified to feel tears pricking at the back of his eyes. Furiously, he blinked them away. 

Optimus’ expression became pained, and he leaned forward until his helm was scant meters away.

“No, Sam, I am not casting you away.” He corrected, solemn and sincere, “I am sending you away for your own protection. Please believe me, it was not an easy decision to make.”

Sam’s fear and grief coalesced into a tidal wave of anger at the Autobot leader’s words. He narrowed his eyes, snapping back, “Oh, that’s a tremendous relief. Really.”

“Sam, please.”

Optimus’ tone pulled him up short—it was gentle, chiding, and unfailingly patient. Sam flushed in response, folding his arms tightly over his chest.

“Where are you sending me?” He asked coldly.

Optimus regarded him for a long moment, his azure optics unusually bright.

“As you know, the American government has set aside a facility in Nevada for use as the Autobot chancery. It was a former military instillation, and its defenses are considerable. Once the fortifications to its security systems are complete, you will take up residence there as our Ambassador.”

Sam stared at Optimus uncomprehendingly.

“… _What?”_

“As a foreign dignitary, the United States has a responsibility under both national and international law to protect you. Although your security detail is still being finalized, it will include both NEST personnel and federal agents.”

“You’re joking.” Sam whispered, aghast.

Optimus shook his helm minutely, “I am not. It is the only way to ensure your safety while Megatron remains in our custody.”

Sam pressed his hands over his mouth as he tried to process what he was hearing. He had assumed that he would be placed in witness protection, as his parents had been. He certainly hadn’t expected to be put up in a foreign embassy under the protective custody of the Secret fucking Service. After a long moment, Sam closed his eyes and cleared his throat.

“Optimus—“

“I realize that this is abrupt,” Optimus interrupted him, and Sam recognized his no-nonsense tone, “But the situation with Megatron and the Decepticon factions has become dire.”

Sam swallowed hard, gathering himself with substantial effort.

“I don’t know the first thing about diplomacy, Optimus.” He replied, although it was more of an observation than a protest, ”I’m not ready for this.”

“You are going to the chancery for your protection, not to act in any official capacity.” Optimus refuted him firmly, “The humans will afford you protection against your own kind, and my soldiers will protect you in the event of a Decepticon attack.”

Sam glanced up at him in surprise, his heartrate picking up again.

“Who’s going?”

“Bumblebee and Ratchet, of course, and Ultra Magnus will oversee operations on the base. Hot Rod, Cliffjumper, and Arcee will provide sentry detail, and Wheeljack will operate the ground bridge. In the event that the embassy is attacked, you can be evacuated to Nellis Air Force Base or Diego Garcia, as the situation requires.” 

Sam shook his head slowly, “This is insane, Optimus.”

“Needs will out, Sam.” Optimus replied gravely.

He exhaled a slow breath, unhappy and disquieted in equal measures. For all that he had resisted the idea of going to Diego Garcia in the first place, Sam found that he was stricken by the idea of leaving the island.

“When are we leaving?” He asked at last.

“A week, perhaps less. Preparations are being finalized with the American government.”

“And if Megatron wakes up before then?” Sam challenged, raising his head to look Optimus in the optics.

“Ratchet will keep Megatron in medically-induced stasis until you leave.” Optimus replied.

Sam frowned faintly, pushing his hands into his pockets again. The poetic justice of Megatron’s situation was not lost on him, but he had zero sympathy for the Decepticon leader.

“How long will I have to say there?”

Optimus shuttered his optics, something like grim resolve on his face, “I cannot say for certain. It is my intention for Megatron to stand trial for his crimes. It will take time for Ultra Magnus to arrange the details.”

Sam’s frown deepened, turning down the corners of his mouth.

“Ultra Magnus?”

“Ultra Magnus was a renowned jurist during the Golden Age. His research and writings on jurisprudence and legal systems were well respected.”

Sam considered his words, mulling over his response in his head. Optimus watched him in silence, allowing him the time to gather his thoughts. Eventually, Sam looked up at him.

“What are you going to do when they find him guilty?” He asked softly.

Optimus inclined his helm, optics bright with some indefinable emotion. When at last he spoke, his voice was a low rumble.

“I will do my duty.”

Sam nodded faintly, but otherwise he did not respond. There were no words to describe the complicated mixture of relief and sorrow and grief that he felt. Optimus’ gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, and then the Autobot leader ex-vented a quiet sigh.

“You should get some rest.” Optimus advised him gently, “It has been a long and arduous day.”

“Yeah, sure. Alright.” Sam replied, before he added, hesitantly, “You should too, you know.”

Optimus’ expression softened with affection, “Your concern is appreciated, Sam. I will retire after the _Nemesis_ has departed from our airspace.”

With that, Optimus inclined his helm in valediction and stepped away from the gantry. He resumed his position at the conference table, between Prowl and Jazz. The second- and third-in-command greeted him in rolling Cybertronian, but their subsequent conversation was too quiet to hear. Sam scrubbed a hand over his face, suddenly exhausted, when Bumblebee whistled at him quietly. The scout had stepped up to the scaffold railing, his expression openly concerned.

Sam dropped his hand with a sigh, “Did you know?”

Bumblebee shook his helm minutely, “No, I learned about it just before you did.”

The scout’s answer caused Sam’s eyebrows to quirk up in surprise.

“Optimus really didn’t tell you?”

Bumblebee’s mental presence seemed contemplative, almost melancholy.

“I don’t think he wanted to put me in a position where I might have to deceive you. Not again.”

Sam flinched at his words, the memory of the Theodore Roosevelt rising unbidden in his mind. It was still painful, even after all this time. Bumblebee must have sensed his disquiet, for he chirped at him quietly.

“Let’s go back to North Quad. You should get something to eat before you go to sleep.”

Sam’s lips quirked up in a faint smile, but he let the scout herd him across the gantry and down the stairs without protest. As soon as his feet hit the concrete floor, Bumblebee transformed into his alt mode and popped open his door. They drove together in relative silence, although their bond was alight with sensation. It was soothing to sit in the darkened cab, listening to the _thrum_ of Bumblebee’s engines, without anything to disturb them.

It was the better part of half an hour later that Sam stumbled into his apartment, dead on his feet. Bumblebee followed after him, closing the door behind them. Sam kicked off his shoes and walked across the room, collapsing in a heap on the couch. Bumblebee handed him the takeout container they had brought from the mess hall, and urged him to eat. Sam obliged him, working his way through the pad thai without tasting a thing. Bumblebee watched him closely, and as soon as his meal was finished, the holoform took the container away. He disposed of the cardboard box and utensils, and then helped Sam into the bedroom.

Sam sat on the edge of the mattress with a grunt. Bumblebee stepped close to him, grasping the hem of his shirt and pulling it off over his head. His pants were next, and once Sam was stripped down to his boxers, Bumblebee pulled the blankets aside. Sam laid down without further prompting, tucking his face into the pillow with an appreciative groan. Bumblebee chuckled quietly, and then nudged his shoulder. Sam understood his meaning, and he shifted over to make room on the bed. A moment later, the holoform laid down beside him, tucking Sam against his body. Sam’s eyes fluttered closed, and he pressed his forehead into Bumblebee’s chest.

Warm and well fed, Sam was asleep before Bumblebee finished tracing the familiar glyph over his skin.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note** Please accept my sincere apologies for the delay in getting this chapter posted. I had the absolute worst case of writer's block that I've experienced since I started this series. The words _just wouldn't come_. Many thanks to FenrirFree, whose suggestion to "just start writing" is the reason you're all getting this chapter today.

Sam slept deeply, undisturbed by nightmares or fitful tossing. When he finally awoke, slowly and reluctantly, he lifted his head to squint at the bedside clock.

5:42 AM.

He groaned quietly, burrowing his face into the pillow. He was alone in bed, and he could tell by the mellow feeling of their bond that Bumblebee was in recharge. Sam laid there for a long while, drifting pleasantly in the place between fully awake and fully asleep. Eventually, he became aware of Ratchet’s mental presence. The medic was focused and distracted, but they were no longer separated by firewalls. Sam hesitated for a moment, and then he tentatively brushed against the wizened glow in his mind. At once, the full weight of Ratchet’s attention fell upon him.

 _//How are Hot Rod and Sunstreaker?//_ Sam asked, although he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to know the answer. 

Ratchet’s reply was immediate, _//Hot Rod is out of stasis. He will require an orn of recharge, but he will be fine. Sunstreaker’s condition is stable, but his capacitators are damaged. They will need to be replaced.//_

Sam chewed on his lip, considering his words. Eventually, he asked, _//Will he make it?//_

 _//He will if he knows what’s good for him.//_ Ratchet replied. The dry tone of the medic’s voice caused Sam to laugh softly in relief. He turned his attention inwards, stretching his mental presence towards the medical bay. The number of spark signatures in his immediate vicinity surprised him; the Autobots were usually positioned around the island as their duties required. Even Ironhide’s grizzled gray presence glowed at him from nearby, and the weapon’s specialist almost never spent time in the Hive. The reason for their clustering became apparent a moment later when Sam noticed two new signatures—one was unfamiliar, emerald green and pulsating weakly, but the other he would have recognized anywhere.

Thundercracker. 

Sam sat up in surprise, his heart leaping into his throat. He had known that the _Nemesis_ was supposed to arrive last night, but he hadn’t expected to have access to the neural-network while the Seekers were on the base.

 _//Neither Thundercracker nor Acid Storm have Creator programming.//_ Ratchet said, addressing his unspoken thoughts.

Sam frowned faintly, mulling over Ratchet’s words, as he pushed the blankets away. He could have guessed that the Seekers didn’t have Creator programming by the fact that he was able to access the neural-net in their presence, but a heads-up would have been appreciated. Sam shivered. The air in the bedroom was cool, causing gooseflesh to break out over his arms. He climbed to his feet, quickly crossing the room to retrieve a change of clothing.

 _//What happened to him?//_ He asked, barely noticing which shirt he pulled off the hanger. His attention was focused inwards, examining Thundercracker’s wispy-white spark signature. It looked the same as it had on the _Nemesis_ , but Sam had no idea whether that was a reliable indicator of good health.

_//He grappled with Barricade, the idiot. A Seeker is no match for a warbuild in close-quarters combat.//_

Sam’s stomach twisted itself in knots. The medic’s voice was scathing, but he did not sound particularly concerned. He grabbed a pair of boxers, pushing the drawer shut with his hip.

 _//How bad are his injuries?//_ Sam asked.

_//He’ll survive. The severed energon lines were a concern, but they have been clamped. The rest of the damage is superficial.//_

He closed his eyes and slowly released the breath that he had been holding. Ratchet’s words caused a complicated swell of emotions, and Sam had neither the fortitude nor the inclination to unpack them before he had a coffee. He sent a wordless pulse of appreciation at the medic, and made his way towards the bathroom.

It was just over thirty minutes later that Sam strolled into the mess hall, freshly showered and shaved. He took his place at the end of the queue, nodding to the brigadier general in front of him. The older man was square-jawed and serious-looking, but he greeted Sam politely all the same. When the general picked up a tray from the stack at the end of the galley, he handed one to Sam as well.

Sam pushed his tray along the metal counter, stopping in front of the coffee carafe to pour himself a cup. He added sugar and milk, stirring until the coffee turned a golden caramel, and then he pressed a plastic lid onto the cup. He sipped the hot beverage as he continued down the galley, staring at the breakfast options. He passed fresh fruit, bread and bagels, breakfast sandwiches, and then he stopped in front of the large silver trays of hot food. He glanced at the young-faced private standing behind the counter.

“Morning.”

“Good morning, Ambassador.”

“What’s good?”

The private smiled, “Chef Jefferson is in the kitchen, sir. It’s all good.”

Sam laughed lightly, inclining his head in good-natured concession.

“In that case, I’ll have the waffles. They’re as good as my mother’s.”

“That is high praise, sir. I’ll be sure to tell the Chef.” The private replied, plating three fluffy-looking waffles, “Whip cream?”

“Definitely. I won’t say no to some strawberries, either, if you have them.” 

The private hummed in acknowledgement as he added the garnishes, and then he extended the plate over the sneeze guard. Sam accepted his meal with murmured thanks, nodding his farewell as he stepped out of the line. He carried his tray towards the cash registers, where he waited in an appreciably shorter line to pay for his meal. The cashier smiled at him as he approached, accepting his card and swiping it in one fell motion. The terminal light blinked green, and then Sam made his way into the seating area to find a table. The mess hall was almost full, despite the early hour, and Sam had to squeeze into a spot at the tall café table against the far wall.

Sam worked through his waffles, biting back a groan at their light, fluffy texture. He had just speared a strawberry with his fork when the spark bond _shifted_ perceptibly. A moment later, Bumblebee’s mental presence brightened like a sunrise in his mind. Sam smiled faintly, popping the strawberry into his mouth, and brushed against the warm glow.

_//Good morning.//_

Bumblebee pressed against him, affectionate and gentle.

_//Good morning. Did you sleep well?//_

Sam cut a piece of waffle off with his fork, swirling it in the remnants of whipped topping. The white mousse had been melted by the heat, leaving a trail of liquid cream on the plate. 

_//I did, actually. Although I was awake at early-as-fuck o’clock.//_

Bumblebee’s presence swelled with amusement, and then there was a spike of _intent_ across their bond.

“Heads up.” Sam warned the corporal sitting beside him. The woman turned to look at him in confusion, and then she startled in surprise as Bumblebee materialized beside them. The holoform smiled at her apologetically as he leaned against the café table, and she pressed a hand over her heart.

“My goodness. That’s the first time I’ve seen it up close.” She said with a laugh, “It’s even more impressive than it looks from a distance.” 

Sam chuckled amusedly, and the corporeal turned back to her breakfast. Bumblebee watched him as he speared another strawberry, a cheerful expression on his face.

“What’s your duty roster today?” Sam asked, reaching for his coffee.

“We’re free until the Director arrives. Prime would like us there to greet her and, if she’s amenable, take her on a tour of the base.” Bumblebee said, and then he added as an afterthought, “Later, Cliff and I have patrol.”

Bumblebee’s words spurred Sam’s memory, and he recalled the scout’s reaction to the news of the Director’s arrival. He glanced at the holoform curiously.

“You said you knew her?”

“I did. We met when I first arrived on Earth.” He replied.

“In the 80s, right?”

“1987, yes.” Bumblebee confirmed, “I was injured in a battle with Blitzwing. She found me in alt, and took me to her home. It was several weeks before my self-repair routines fixed the worst of the damage. I woke from stasis in her garage.”

Sam grimaced as the memory of a yellow-gray spark signature and the sound of agonized shrieking rose to the forefront of his mind. It left him feeling disgusted and angry and ashamed and cheated, all at once. Not for the first time—and much to his consternation—Sam wished that he had finished what he’d started with Blitzwing _._ It was another thing to hold against Megatron, he supposed.

Beside him, Bumblebee went still as his expression clouded in concern. With effort, Sam swallowed the mouthful of waffle that he had been chewing. It seemed to stick in his throat all the way down.

“That must have been a shock.” Sam said, hoping to forestall any inquiries from his bonded. Bumblebee looked at him closely for a long moment, and then he slowly nodded. 

“It was, although not for the reasons you might expect. The memory partitions in my processor were damaged in the battle. While I maintained a rudimentary sense of self, I was mostly amnesiac.”

Sam winced in sympathy, grabbing a napkin from the dispenser on the table. He wiped his mouth and hands as he asked, “What did she do?”

“Charlie was kind to me. She helped repair what damage she could—she was a mechanic at the time—and later she assisted me in circumventing a plot by Dropkick and Shatter.”

Sam’s eyebrows raised of their own accord as he balled up the napkin and dropped it onto his tray.

“What happened?” He asked, and then he grimaced internally. _Tactless._

Bumblebee’s expression became far away and contemplative. After a moment, he raised a shoulder in a haphazard shrug.

“Nothing happened. I recovered my memory and transmitted my telemetry to Prime. He instructed me to guard the Earth as well as I was able until they arrived.”

Sam frowned faintly, turning more fully towards the holoform.

“I meant what happened with the Director.”

Bumblebee’s expression did not change, but Sam could feel the restless quality of his mental presence.

“As I said, nothing happened. I asked whether she wanted to accompany me and she declined.”

Sam’s frown deepened, and he felt a vicarious sting of rejection on Bumblebee’s behalf. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Bumblebee’s expression softened in a smile.

“I was not offended by Charlie’s decision, Sam. I could not offer her stability or normalcy. I could not even guarantee her safety.”

Sam huffed quietly as he gathered up his garbage. He wanted to refute the scout’s words, to reassure Bumblebee that he was _worth it_ , but he didn’t. Whatever had happened between Bumblebee and Director was none of his business. He picked up his tray and climbed off the counter stool, affixing the holoform with a supportive smile.

“So what time is she bridging in?”

Bumblebee’s eyes crinkled as he smiled back, and Sam had the distinct impression that his response had been appreciated.

“She’s scheduled to arrive at eight o’clock.” He replied, and before Sam could ask for the time, he added, “About forty minutes from now.”

“Did you want to head over now? We’ll be early, but there’s nothing else to do.”

“We might as well.” Bumblebee replied easily, and together they made their way across the mess hall. The large room was clamorous with the voices of hundreds of people, talking and laughing with one another as they prepared for the day. Sam stepped around a cluster of tired-looking support staff, and scraped the remains of his breakfast into the garbage before stacking his tray and exiting the mess hall. As they walked, Sam chatted amiably about this and that—his courses, his assignments, work with Carter. Although Bumblebee’s expression was one of polite interest, the scout was obviously preoccupied. He answered Sam’s questions in monosyllables or hums of agreement, but otherwise he was silent. They were halfway to the bridge entrance before Sam could interpret the confusing mixture of _anticipation-uncertainty-happiness_ that pulsed through their bond. Bumblebee was looking forward to seeing the Director again, but he was anxious about their reunion.

Sam felt a rush of helpless affection, and he brushed against the winter-white glow in his mind.

“It’ll be great, Bee. You’ll see.” He said reassuringly.

Bumblebee turned to smile at him, equal parts appreciative and amused.

“Am I that obvious?”

Sam laughed lightly.

“What can I say? I’m getting better at interpreting your moods.”

Bumblebee chuckled good-naturedly, and Sam’s smile curled wider.

“See?” He said triumphantly, turning to poke a finger into the holoform’s side, “That means that you’re proud of me, but you’re a bit put out by it too.”

Bumblebee tilted his head, his eyebrows drifting closing to his hairline. Sam knew that the expression was crafted to affect an air of surprise.

“Oh?” Bumblebee asked.

“Yeah.” Sam replied with a definitive nod, “You’re pleased that I’m improving, of course, but no one likes getting called out on their shit.”

As soon as the words were out of Sam’s mouth, Bumblebee threw back his head and laughed. The sound was warm and jovial, and Sam huffed a laugh of his own in response. It delighted him to no end to catch his bonded by surprise.

Bumblebee turned to look at him, his expression openly fond.

“I suppose that’s true.” He admitted with a smile.

Sam smiled back, bumping him with his shoulder. They walked the rest of the way to the bridge in companionable silence. When they reached the large red doors, Bumblebee stepped forward to open them. Sam walked through a moment later, and as soon as his eyes settled on the waiting Camaro, the holoform disappeared. The yellow alt mode gleamed in the bright light of the corridor, its finish almost satiny in appearance. Sam pushed his hands into his pockets and strolled forward. He made a show of looking the car over, pretending to consider what he saw in front of him. 

“Bee, are you a parking ticket?” He asked at last, perfectly serious, “Because you’ve got fine written all over you.”

Even as he finished speaking, Sam felt a swell of _fondness-exasperation_ across their bond. He laughed lightly, congratulating himself as he climbed into the familiar cabin. Bumblebee pulled the door closed behind him, and then they were driving towards East Quad. The bridge was relatively quiet, despite the bustle of the mess hall. They passed only the occasional service vehicle or cluster of soldiers that looked far too alert for the early hour. Sam settled back against the driver’s seat, barely paying attention as Bumblebee navigated through the large, cement corridor. His focus was turned inwards, towards the neural-network. It practically _hummed_ with the proximity of so many Cybertronians—their spark signatures a dizzying array of color and light and sensation. Despite Sam’s best efforts, his focus was repeatedly drawn back to the too-familiar signature that glowed dimly in the distance. Megatron’s presence was muted and restrained, but it still sent fear slithering down Sam’s spine. 

Sam shivered and forced his mind away. He could feel Bumblebee’s quiet scrutiny across their bond, but the scout made no move to push in or interrupt his thoughts. Sam pressed a palm against the Autobot emblem set in the dash, his thumb stroking the smooth leather. It was a gesture of reassurance as much as it was one of appreciation.

As they turned onto East Quad, Sam was surprised to notice the pedestrian traffic increase substantially. The people they passed were dressed in all manner of personally protective equipment, from lab coats and goggles to face shields and isolation gowns. Sam twisted in his seat as they passed one individual—whether it was a man or a woman, he couldn’t tell—in a heavy-duty respirator and face shield. He felt a twinge of curiosity, but before he could voice a question, his attention was pulled back towards the neural-net by a familiar sight. There, only a short distance away, was Hoist’s soft, blue-green spark signature. Instinctively, Sam reached out and brushed against him—only to recoil away in surprise. Whereas Hoist’s spark signature was tranquil and soothing, this was something else entirely. It radiated a sense of impatience and frustration and focus that Sam could not readily interpret.

“Who—“ He asked, glancing down at the dashboard.

“Grapple.” Bumblebee answered automatically.

“I thought it was Hoist.” Sam said, frowning. His words were as much a question as an observation.

“They’re spark bonded.” Bumblebee reminded him, amusement in his voice.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Bumblebee’s amusement deepened as he turned down the hallway that would lead to the ground bridge hangar.

“Spark bonded pairs tend to have a similar appearance. Not as closely as spark twins, of course, but there is often a resemblance.”

Sam felt his curiosity pique at the scout’s words, and he tilted his head to look at the dash. Upon closer inspection, Sam could see that Grapple’s signature was different than Hoist’s—his shone rather than _glowed_ —but the resemblance was there. At the realization, a thought occurred to Sam.

“Do we look alike?” He asked.

“We are similar, yes, although your signature is different than any Cybertronian I’ve met.”

“What do I look like?”

“You are very beautiful.” Bumblebee replied simply.

Sam laughed softly, “Thanks, you big charmer. Care to be more specific?”

Bumblebee’s mental presence warmed with affection, all traces of his earlier humor gone. He brushed across Sam’s mind, as gentle as a breeze.

“It is difficult to describe. The way that you interpret spark signatures differs markedly with how Cybertronians do so. Prowl was most amused by your comparison of his spark to peppermint.”

Sam’s eyebrows quirked of their own accord. They pulled into the ground bridge hangar a moment later, and Bumblebee drove forward until he was a dozen meters away from the archway. Sam could see that Optimus and Jazz were already waiting, and Wheeljack and Perceptor stood near the controls. Beside Prime stood a cluster of human support staff, including Dave Carter. The personal assistant was dressed in a charcoal suit with a steel blue tie—it was an outfit that he occasionally wore to meet with visiting dignitaries. Sam glanced back at the dashboard, making no move to exit the Camaro.

“How do Cybertronians see each other?”

“We process the neural-network in something equivalent to binary code. Spark signatures are interpreted in terms of faction, build-class, caste, designation, and age, in that order.”

“Really? You don’t _see_ each other, like I see you?”

“We do, but not in terms of sensory stimuli.” Bumblebee made a thoughtful sound, “If I were hard-pressed to describe you, I would say that you were adularescent in appearance.”

Sam’s lips quirked up in a half-smile, “Oh, wow, really? That clears it up.”

Bumblebee _nudged_ against him, and Sam swatted the steering wheel playfully in retaliation.

“It’s a property common to opals and gemstones. It’s like… moonlight on dark water.”

Bumblebee’s words were hesitant, almost shy, as though he were struggling to describe a complicated concept.

“That’s very poetic.” Sam teased. Bumblebee _honked_ at him in exasperation, and popped open the door open on his behalf. Sam climbed out of the cab, running the palm of his hand over the gleaming yellow roof, before stepping away. As soon as he was clear, Bumblebee initiated his transformation sequence and, moments later, crouched down in front of him in his bipedal mode.

“I regret that I am unable to articulate myself more clearly.” He murmured quietly, reaching out a digit to lightly trail down the length of Sam’s arm, “You are lovely to look at.”

A warm flush spread across Sam’s face at the sincerity in his bonded’s voice. He tried to think of something to say in response, but his throat suddenly felt too thick to get the words out. He was rescued from having to stumble through a reply by the arrival of Optimus and Jazz.

“Good morning, Sam.” The Autobot leader greeted, inclining his head.

Sam turned, angling his head to look up at the large mechanoid.

“Morning Optimus. Morning Jazz.”

The silver second-in-command raised two digits to his forehead in a friendly salute. Sam smiled at him faintly, before turning back to look at Optimus.

“Hey, listen, I wanted to apologize for my reaction yesterday. I could have handled it better.”

“No apology is necessary, Sam. I realize that it was unexpected.”

Sam laughed quietly, folding his arms over his chest.

“Yeah, that’s an understatement.” He conceded with a wry smile, “But I wanted you to know that I get it… and I appreciate it. It’s uncomfortable enough being here while he’s in stasis. I couldn’t imagine if… well, you know.”

Optimus’ optics glowed brightly in an otherwise inscrutable face.

“Yes. I do know.” He rumbled lowly.

Sam’s brow furrowed slightly, taken aback by the undercurrent of tension in the Autobot leader’s tone. Suddenly, Wheeljack’s chirpy voice cut across the large hangar.

“Prime, Nellis has communicated a ready signal.”

Together, they looked in the engineer’s direction. Wheeljack was standing at the ground bridge controls, shifting his weight from one pede to the other. Perceptor stood at his side, optics bright as he looked at them expectantly.

“Thank-you, Wheeljack. On my signal.” Optimus replied, before turning to glance at Carter who had approached them, “Dave, Sam, I appreciate your presence as I welcome the Director. She is to be afforded every courtesy due her station during her stay.”

Although the Autobot leader’s words were polite and direct, his tone made Sam raise an eyebrow.

“Anything we should know?” He asked, amiably.

Optimus turned to regard him for a long moment. Sam had the distinct impression that the Autobot leader was weighing how much information to share with him. Eventually, he replied, “Unlike the United Nations, the United States’ Intelligence Community has no responsibility to foreign nations. Their mandate is to gather intelligence that will further the agenda and security of their country by any means necessary.” 

Sam’s mouth turned down at the corners, taken aback by the warning. “Gather intelligence? Do you mean that she’s a spy?”

Optimus visibly hesitated, but it was Jazz who answered.

“Director Mearing’s loyalties lie with the United States, not with us.” He explained matter-of-factly, “Although it’s unlikely that she’s an intelligence agent, you should be mindful of what you say around her.”

Behind him, Sam could feel Bumblebee’s frame go rigid. The scout’s mental presence was awash with a confusing mixture of affront and denial and concern, but Sam could not see the flaw in Jazz’s reasoning. His mouth settled into a grim line.

“If you don’t trust her, then why did you invite her?”

“For the same reason that Ravage has been our guest for the last three weeks.” Jazz replied, shrugging his pauldrons. At once, Sam understood.

“It’s a gesture of good faith?” He asked, recalling Bumblebee’s words.

Optimus rumbled in agreement, “Indeed. It is my hope that, by inviting the Director to Diego Garcia, the United States will see that we wish to work towards mutual prosperity.” 

Sam exhaled softly, pushing his hands back into his pockets.

“No pressure, though.”

Optimus’ optics warmed at his words, “None at all.”

Sam huffed a laugh as Dave came to stand at his side. The agent smiled at him in greeting, and then they turned to look at the archway. Optimus and Jazz stepped away, moving to stand in front of the ground bridge, as Optimus inclined his helm at the engineers. Wheeljack chirped in acknowledgement, and then his spindly digits flew over the keyboard in front of him. Sam held his breath as a brilliant miasma of color erupted in the archway, dark blue and green swirling together like an abstract painting. It was beautiful, in the way that a controlled detonation can be beautiful—powerful and bright and cacophonic. A moment later, several figures emerged from the vortex.

As light and color disappeared, Sam was able to make them out. The first person was clearly Director Mearing, an attractive middle-aged woman with ashen hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. She carried an attaché case in one hand and a white file box in the other. At her side stood a young woman, similarly dressed in professional clothing and holding another box. To their left was Will Lennox, carrying a large duffle bag in each hand. His expression was tense but inscrutable. The Major lowered one bag to the ground, extending an arm towards Optimus. Before he could speak, however, Mearing walked towards the Autobot leader and nodded at him in greeting.

“Optimus Prime. It is nice to finally meet you.”

Will dropped his hand and, behind Mearing’s back, rolled his eyes expressively. Optimus did not acknowledge Will’s reaction; instead, the Autobot leader lowered to one knee and inclined his helm in greeting.

“Director Mearing, welcome to Diego Garcia.”

“Thank-you for having me.” She replied perfunctorily, “Where am I stationed? I would like to begin as soon as possible.”

Sam stiffened at the faint edge of impatience in her tone—it was clear that the Director was not at all interested in pleasantries. If Optimus was put off by her manner, he did not show it.

“There has been work space set aside for you in South Quad. However, I thought you may wish to tour the base and get something to eat before you begin. I know it is late in Nevada.”

“That won’t be necessary. I ate before we bridged over.” She replied, glancing around the hangar, “I would prefer to begin as soon as possible.”

“As you wish.” Optimus intoned, dignified and polite, before gesturing towards Sam, “My personal assistant, Dave Carter, and our Ambassador, Sam Witwicky, will show you the way.”

Mearing turned to regard them, her eyes raking Sam from head to toe. Her gaze was sharp, and he had the distinct impression that she missed nothing in her assessment. The Director turned her head slightly to nod at Prime, before she started in their direction. Although her expression was a study of control, Sam knew that he hadn’t imagined the way her eyes had flicked towards Bumblebee.

Sam arranged his face into his _diplomacy-neutral_ expression, and extended a hand as she approached.

“Good morning, Director. Welcome to the island.”

Mearing set down her briefcase and took his hand. Her grip was firm and dry.

“Good morning, Ambassador. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“You as well.” Sam replied, on rote.

Mearing tilted her head, seeming to consider him.

“I’ve heard a lot about you. My predecessor had a great deal to say on the subject of Samuel Witwicky.”

Sam could feel his mask slip at her words, surprise and dislike flitting across his face in quick succession. He was sure that Theodore Galloway could fill volumes with all that he had to say about him. Sam was just as sure that he didn’t give a shit.

Mearing’s mouth turned up at the corners, her expression warming at his reaction.

“Oh, I agree.” She said, responding to whatever she saw in his expression, “He’s quite the windbag. Is it true that you punched him in the face?”

Sam blinked at her in response, taken aback by her directness. When he didn’t answer her question immediately, Mearing’s eyebrows drifted closer to her hairline.

“I lost my temper. I don’t condone my actions.” He replied at last.

“I do.” Mearing returned, a half-smile curling the corners of her mouth, “You just won me a hundred dollars.”

Sam couldn’t prevent the huff of laughter that escaped him at her response. Before he could reply, Dave Carter stepped forward and extended his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, Director. My name is Dave Carter.”

Sam winced internally at his gracelessness; the agent had clearly been waiting for Sam to introduce them. Mearing took Dave’s hand, her professional demeanor back in place.

“It’s nice to meet you Dave. Now please, show me to my office. I have worked that must be filed before end-of-business.”

Dave inclined his head and gestured towards Bumblebee. Sam half-turned to see the yellow scout watching the Director with an intensity of regard that had an almost physical weight.

“I understand that you already know Bumblebee.” Dave said, “He’ll take us to South Quad.”

The Director turned to look at him, her expression doing something complicated. Her brow furrowed and then smoothed, as her eyes grew dark with emotion.

“Hey Bee.” She murmured, stepping towards the scout, “I thought that was you.”

Sam was taken aback by the softness of her tone, which was completely at odds with her brass tacks demeanor. Bumblebee crouched down in front of her, his servos resting on his knee struts and his wingflaps fluttering expressively.

“ _Char-lie.”_

Sam went rigid from head to toe as Bumblebee approximated the Director’s name in Cybertronian. He felt a rush of _something_ lodge beneath his breastbone—it was sharp and ugly and unpleasant. _Jealously_ was entirely inadequate a term to describe it.

Oblivious to Sam’s sudden tension, the Director reached a hand to grasp Bumblebee’s faceplates. She gave him an affectionate tug, murmuring something inaudible to the scout. All at once, his anger and jealously flashed into a possessive fury, and Sam’s face flushed crimson in response. A thousand thoughts darted through his mind almost too quickly to process—fuck off, back off, and hands off chief among them. Before he could say a word, however, he felt a warning _touch_ in his mind.

 _//You’re glaring daggers at our new liaison.//_ Jazz said, and although his voice was light, Sam could detect an undercurrent of strain, _//Play nice.//_

Sam’s head snapped around and he fixed the second-in-command with a glare that could melt solid steel. The saboteur raised his hands in a helpless gesture that said ‘Just saying’ as clearly as words. With a herculean effort, Sam took a steadying breath in through his nose and released it out of his mouth. By the time he turned back around, he felt marginally less likely to commit second-degree murder. The sight of Bumblebee gently removing the Director’s hands from his faceplates served to further cool the fire in his belly.

“We should go.” Bumblebee said, once again in English, “I am sure that you have much to do.”

At his words, Mearing’s expression turned grim.

“We do, and we’re running out of time to do it. We believe that MECH is preparing for another attack.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note** : I wish I could claim credit for the idea of Charlotte Mearing (ROTF) as Charlie (Bumblebee Movie), but it's not mine. It was (lovingly) lifted from [Xenoethnography](https://archiveofourown.org/series/913458) by Therrae. It's an astounding piece of fiction, and I urge you to read it if you haven't already.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note** : Thank-you so much to everyone who has left kudos, bookmarked, subscribed, and/or left feedback in the comments. I am truly so grateful for you guys--you're the reason I'm still writing!

The Director’s words were met with grim silence, but she did not seem inclined to elaborate. Mearing motioned towards the young woman who had accompanied her, and a moment later, she handed off the file box that she was holding. As soon as the box was out of her possession, Mearing pulled her cellphone out of her jacket pocket. She stared at it intently for a second, and then her thumbs flew across the screen as she typed something. At the same time, the woman adjusted her grip on the boxes that she held stacked one on top of the other. Dave stepped forward as she situated herself, motioning to help her, but the woman stopped him with a look.

“I am capable of carrying these myself, thank-you.”

Dave seemed taken aback for a moment, and then he smiled at her apologetically.

“Of course. Please excuse me.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed fractionally behind her dark-framed glasses. Before she could reply, however, Mearing called over her shoulder.

“It’s not a pissing contest, Miller.” She said dryly, without looking up from her phone, “It’s just a courtesy.”

The woman, Miller, grimaced faintly in response, before she glanced back at Dave.

“Apologies, Mr. Carter.” She said ruefully, “Old habits die hard.”

Dave laughed good-naturedly, “It’s fine, I get it.”

Seemingly satisfied, Mearing tucked her phone back into her pocket and then turned towards Bumblebee.

“Are you still sporting the Beetle?” She asked. It was as much a directive as it was a question.

In lieu of a reply, the scout stepped back and transformed into his alt mode. As soon as his tires touched polished concrete, the Director walked towards him. Her gaze was assessing, and Sam saw her take in every inch of the vehicle. After a long moment, her mouth curved up in a smile.

“Camaro, huh? Well, it’s no Corvette, but it’s leagues better than the Volkswagen.” 

Although Bumblebee honked playfully at her in response, the Director’s words needled Sam. He did not have the time to reflect on why that was before she opened the driver’s side door. The sight of her climbing into Bumblebee’s cab, casual and confident, like she had every right to do so, reignited the fire of Sam’s anger. He felt hot all over and he knew that his face must be cherry-red, but he didn’t care. His attention was focused solely on the mousy-haired woman sitting in his seat.

“Miller, put the boxes in the trunk starting with the House Intelligence Committee’s briefings. We’ll go through them first.” Mearing ordered, reaching for the door. As her hand settled on the handle, the Director glanced over at him. They made eye contact for a brief moment, and then she shut the door behind her.

_Oh, you bitch._

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Bumblebee’s mental presence wrapped around him. The scout felt fretful and anxious and contrite all at once, and the sensation made his chest constrict with guilt. Sam closed his eyes and took a fortifying breath. Although it did nothing to abate the jealous anger churning in his belly, it made him feel marginally calmer. After a moment, Sam opened his eyes and _nudged_ reassuringly against the winter-white glow in his mind. He could do this—he could be an adult.

“Sam?” Dave asked, pulling him out of his reverie. He turned to look at the agent, who was regarding him closely, “All good?”

Sam forced a smile onto his face as Miller finished putting the boxes in Bumblebee’s trunk.

“Oh, never better. Ready to go?”

Dave’s expression turned faintly skeptical, but the agent followed him around to Bumblebee’s passenger side all the same. Bee opened the door as they approached, adjusting his seat forward so that Carter and Miller could climb into the back. Once they were settled, Bumblebee repositioned the seat and Sam ducked into the cab. The Camaro was in motion as soon as the door clicked shut behind him.

Sam did not say a word during the drive. Carter provided a truncated version of his welcome speech, explaining the general layout of the Hive and pointing out features of interest as they made their way to South Quad. Miller asked Carter to provide clarification a few times, and the two of them struck up a pleasant conversation. As they passed the entrance to the receiving room, Mearing let go of the steering wheel and brushed a thumb over the Autobot emblem set on the airbag module. The touch was familiar—it was one that Sam had done himself a thousand times. It was gentle and affectionate, and it drew his gaze like a magnet. After a long moment, Sam turned his head and stared resolutely out the window. 

The drive from East to South Quad was mercifully short. As soon as Bumblebee rolled to a stop, Sam pushed open the door and climbed out of the cab. As Carter and Miller followed suit, he walked around to the trunk and thumped it meaningfully with the flat of his hand. Bumblebee popped it open for him, and Sam pulled out the first box with a grunt. It was a lot heavier than it looked.

“Thank-you, Ambassador.” Miller said, accepting the box from him.

“No problem.” Sam replied, pulling the second box out of the trunk, “Alright Bumblebee, thanks.”

The scout chirped at him, and then the trunk snapped closed of its own accord.

“Director Mearing, Agent Miller, this way please.” Carter said with a smile, gesturing with one hand towards the large yellow doors to South Quad.

Together they made their way into the administrative section of the Hive. Although the outer portion was all gleaming white corridors and glass-walled conference rooms, the inner portion of the quad could have belonged in any office building in America. The walls were painted a neutral eggshell color, which contrasted tastefully with the patterned blue-gray carpet and dark doors. The quad was filled with support staff that were working individually or in small groups. Most were dressed in business attire, but there were a fair number of people wearing military uniforms as well. As they made their way deeper into the quad, they passed legal, finance, and then human resources. Eventually, they stepped through the double glass entry doors into the logistics department.

Carter nodded and greeted the people that they passed, and soon enough he stepped in front of a nondescript door. He swiped his keycard through the reader set in the wall, and then opened the office. The space beyond was large, obviously intended for double or triple occupancy. There were two desks set facing each other on opposite walls. Each had its own computer, but otherwise they were empty. There was an older inkjet printer on a table in one corner and a standing filing cabinet in the other. The large, musty office gave the impression of long disuse.

“This is the space that’s been set aside for you. The identification badges that you received will provide access to both the quad and the office.” Carter explained as Sam set the file box on the nearest desk, “Your login credentials from Nellis can be used to access the computers. Is there anything else that you need?”

Mearing looked over the room with a critical eye, before her gaze settled on the printer.

“We’re going to have some large print jobs. Is there a high capacity printer that we can use?”

Carter nodded at her, “The main printer is located in the mail room. It’s unlocked during the day, but you’ll need a key to use it after close-of-business.”

“Thank-you, agent.” Mearing replied. It was a clear dismissal.

“My office is located around the corner in 304C if you need anything.” Dave said, stepping back into the hall, “The bathrooms were on the left as we entered the suite. The kitchenette is just down the way.”

Mearing pulled a file box towards her and began to unpack its contents. Sam did not stay long enough to see what it was that he’d been hauling around. Instead, he followed Dave out of the office and down the hallway. As soon as he was certain that they were out of earshot, Sam turned to grin at him.

“I don’t know what Optimus is paying you, but you deserve a raise.”

Dave laughed lightly as he stopped in front of his office. He swiped his keycard in the reader, and then pushed open the door. The space within was unchanged from the first time that Sam had stepped foot in it almost three years ago. The large L-shaped desk dominated the room, and it was just as cluttered with papers and bulging file folders as always. The opposite wall was decorated with diplomas and awards and, of course, Dave’s beloved Packers pennon. 

Sam folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorframe. Dave pulled his suit jacket off and hung it over the back of his chair before sitting down and turning on his computer monitor.

“What are you working on this morning?” Sam asked good-naturedly.

Dave went still at Sam’s words, the humor fading from his face. He took a moment to visibly collect himself before he answered the question.

“I’m making the necessary arrangements.” He replied at last, forced levity in his voice, “For Killian and Jason.”

Sam grimaced deeply, feeling like an insensitive asshole.

“I’m sorry, Dave. Do you need any help?”

“No, thank-you.” Dave replied, shaking his head.

Sam hesitated, taking in his drawn face and the weary stoop to his shoulders. 

“Are you sure? I don’t have anything pressing to do. I could go get us some coffee and spend the day.”

Dave’s expression softened in appreciation, and he folded his hands together to rest on the nearest stack of papers.

“Thank-you Sam, truly, but this is something I have to do myself. If that changes, I’ll let you know.”

Sam nodded slowly as he pushed off the doorframe.

“Yeah, okay. I’m here if you need me though. You know that, right?”

Dave’s lips curved upwards in the ghost of a smile.

“I do. Thank-you, Sam. You’re a good friend.”

Sam smiled back at him and murmured a farewell, before turning and making his way through the South Quad. Although he nodded politely at anyone who greeted him, Sam’s thoughts were turned inwards. He could not get the sight of Dave’s pale, drawn face out of his mind. He knew that Dave and Killian had been close—they had bonded over their mutual dislike of the Patriots, despite the fact that Killian was from Boston. The loud, foul-mouthed marine had been the antithesis of Carter’s calm professionalism, but if anything, their differences had brought them closer together. He knew that Carter was grieving his death, but Sam was beginning to worry that he was not coping as well as he was letting on.

Sam’s concern for his friend drove Mearing clean out of his mind. He was halfway to the bridge entrance, deep in his thoughts, when Bumblebee’s holoform shimmered to life in front of him. Sam startled violently, making an undignified noise of surprise in the process.

“ _Jesus Christ_ , Bumblebee!” Sam snapped, one hand clutching his chest as the other supported his weight against the wall, “You almost gave me a heart attack!”

Sam’s angry outburst drew the surprised glances of a few passersby, but he paid them no attention. He glared at the holoform in front of him, who winced apologetically in response.

“I’m sorry, Sam. I did not realize you were so distracted.”

Sam shook his head, taking a few steadying breaths. When his heart finally vacated its position from behind his tonsils, he was more inclined to be forgiving.

“No, it’s fine.” He said at last, pushing his hands into his pockets, “I’m sorry I yelled.”

Bumblebee’s lips quirked in a smile, and then he half turned, gesturing down the hallway in front of them. They fell into step together, side by side, as they continued towards the bridge. Sam walked slowly, his mind still a whirlwind of thoughts. Now that he was paying closer attention, however, he could feel Bumblebee’s mental presence. The winter-white glow was similarly introspective, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out what might be on his mind. 

Sam glanced sidelong at him.

“So Mearing, huh?”

Bumblebee turned his head to look at him. His gaze was contemplative and soft.

“Charlie was single-minded and tenacious when I knew her. It does not surprise me that she is so… direct.” He said, before he visibly hesitated, “Thank-you for being accommodating.”

Sam’s mouth curved up in a smile.

“I’m sorry for calling your friend a bitch.”

His words startled a quiet laugh out of the holoform, “It is not entirely your fault. Spark bonded pairs are prone to possessiveness.”

Sam hummed thoughtfully in response. He could still remember the way that Bumblebee had reacted when Sunstreaker had pushed in on him two years ago. At the time, Sam had assumed that Bumblebee was feeling protective as a result of Ripcord’s attack. Now he was beginning to understand the depths of the scout’s territoriality around him.

“I can’t say I enjoy it much.” Sam said conversationally, “I’m not really a jealous person.”

Bumblebee walked ahead to pull open the double doors to the outer portion of the quad. Sam stepped through, and then they continued down the long, white corridor.

“I am… prone to jealousy.” Bumblebee admitted a moment later, “It is not a flattering character trait.”

Sam laughed lightly at his self-deprecating tone, and leaned into the winter-white glow in his mind. It was warm and familiar and comforting. They walked in silence the rest of the way back to the bridge. When Sam stepped through the large yellow doors and saw Bumblebee’s alt mode waiting in the corridor, he felt a complicated twist of emotion. He stepped towards the Camaro, running his hand over the yellow bonnet. The feeling of warm metal against his skin caused his throat to thicken.

“I love you.” Sam said softly. 

Bumblebee’s mental presence swelled with affection. The holoform stepped close, drawing the fingers of one hand across Sam’s back from one shoulder to the other. His touch was as light as a feather, and Sam could not suppress his shiver in response.

“I love you too.” Bumblebee murmured, directly into Sam’s ear, “And I always will.”

Sam turned his head to smile at him, putting their faces only inches apart. Bumblebee held his gaze for a long moment, and then he opened the door for him. As soon as Sam was settled in the driver’s seat, the holoform pushed the door shut and then disappeared. At the same time, Bumblebee’s engine rolled over and the lights on his dash lit up. Sam clasped the steering wheel in one hand and pressed the other against the Autobot insignia on the air bag module.

“Always, huh? I suppose that’s a lot more literal now than it used to be.”

Bumblebee made a considerate noise as he accelerated down the wide, cement corridor. Sam was silent for a long while, mulling over his words. He had grappled extensively with the implications of his increased lifespan, both privately and in therapy. It wasn’t that he wanted to die at a hundred years old, not exactly, but the knowledge that he could well live thousands, perhaps millions of years was deeply unsettling. Human brains hadn’t evolved to handle such long lifespans. What it would be like after everyone that he had ever known was gone? After his parents, Mikaela, Dave, and Will were dead and buried? How would the passage of time affect him emotionally and mentally?

Sam propped an elbow against the door and chewed absently on his thumbnail. What would happen if the Autobots had to leave Earth eventually? Humans hadn’t evolved for space travel, either. Did Cybertron even have a breathable atmosphere? Sam doubted it, considering its structure and design. Without a breathable atmosphere, the temperature could also be lethal. Ravage and Bumblebee had spoken about temperature in relative terms—he knew that Nova Cronum was cold and Iacon was temperate, but that could mean anything.

Sam exhaled sharply, and then rubbed his hand across his mouth. He actively avoided thinking about the ramifications of his increased lifespan, but sometimes it was inescapable. After a moment, he looked at the dashboard.

“It won’t be easy, you know. If we ever have to leave Earth, I’m going to be a huge liability.”

Bumblebee was silent for so long that Sam thought he might not reply. When at last he spoke, his voice was quiet.

“I would stop at nothing to protect you.”

Sam huffed a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it.

“There’s only so much that you can do. Allspark energy notwithstanding, I’m still organic. I’m still human _._ ”

By the time that he finished speaking, Sam’s voice had become bitter. His _otherness_ was still a painful subject for him.

“I know that.” Bumblebee replied gently.

“Do you?” Sam challenged, directing a pointed look at the dashboard, “Sometimes I think you forget.”

Bumblebee made a pained sound.

“Please, Sam. I don’t want to have this conversation with you while I’m in alt.”

The scout’s reply took Sam by surprise. He had never before expressed a preference to talk in one mode over another. Sam pondered this for a few scant moments, and then the implications of his words sank in. 

“What conversation?” Sam asked, frowning faintly.

“Sam, please.”

The tone of Bumblebee’s voice sent trepidation skittering up Sam’s spine. It was pleading and vulnerable, and Sam’s protest died in his mouth. He stared at the dashboard for the rest of the drive in silence, his heartrate increasing with every meter that they passed. When Bumblebee pulled to a stop a short distance from the North Quad entrance, he opened the driver’s side door. Sam climbed out of the cabin without a word. As soon as he was clear, Bumblebee rolled back half a dozen feet and then transformed. Seconds later, the scout crouched down in front of him. His optics shone brightly in his face, less than a meter away from Sam’s own.

“I know that you’re human.” Bumblebee said solemnly, “It is neither a source of disappointment nor shame.”

Sam huffed quietly, “I know that, but Bumblebee—“

“No, no buts.” Bumblebee interrupted him, shuffling forward until the scout was in his personal space, “Don’t you see? I love you because you’re human, not in spite of it.”

Sam’s frown returned, deeper and more pronounced. He opened his mouth to argue, but Bumblebee cut him off.

“I have suffered much loss, Sam. I do not speak of it often—it shameful to complain when others have endured far worse. In the span of a million years, I lost many dear friends, my home, my faith, my _hope_. I was a shell by the time that I came to Earth.”

Sam swallowed thickly, pressing a palm over the smooth metal that protected the scout’s spark casing. Bumblebee raised a servo and touched the back of Sam’s hand with two thick digits.

“Charlie did what she could to repair me, but she couldn’t heal me—not where I was most broken.” Bumblebee continued, “Only you were able to do that, Sam.”

“Bumblebee…” Sam murmured, both moved and upset by the scout’s words. He knew that Bumblebee had been bereft when he arrived on Earth, but never before had he spoken so viscerally about his feelings.

“When I met you, I was shocked by your resiliency, your bravery, and your loyalty. You, a sixteen-year-old organic, risked your life for me—and for us—because you thought it was right.” Bumblebee’s voice grew softer, and he brought a servo to settle against Sam’s back, “I asked to be your guardian after Mission City as a way to repay you. At the time, I was still used to thinking of kindness as a debt to be settled. It wasn’t until I got to know you, in all of your messy organic imperfections, that I realized how _good_ you were. It humbled me greatly.”

Sam scoffed softly, but there was nothing derisive about it.

“You’re putting me on a pedestal that I don’t deserve.” He said, “I didn’t do anything more than Lennox or Epps.” 

Rather than refute his words, Bumblebee’s mental presence enveloped him. The touch was soothing, like slipping into a warm bath after a long day. Sam’s breath sighed out of him in response. 

“Within you, I have found all that I have lost.” Bumblebee murmured, like a prayer, “You are not a liability, Sam. You are my strength.”

Sam’s head pitched forward until it rested against Bumblebee’s chassis. He was aware that there were people and vehicles passing them, but it was a periphery annoyance, easily ignored. He breathed against the warm metal, listening to the sound of Bumblebee’s inner workings. The soft _hiss_ and _ping_ of hydraulics and pistons was imminently familiar, and it caused Sam’s entire body to relax. Bumblebee _chirruped_ at him gently, affectionately, and stroked the tips of his digits down Sam’s back. It was not long before Sam was oblivious to everything but his touch.

After an indeterminate amount of time, Bumblebee’s mental presence became tinged with regret. The scout _nudged_ against him, and Sam blinked open his eyes.

“As much as I would love to stay here with you, it’s after ten.”

“Huh?”

“You have a lecture in fifteen minutes.”

All at once, the pleasant cloud of dopamine and oxytocin in which he had been floating completely evaporated. The sounds of the bridge came back to him in a rush—the hum of industrial grade lights, the rumble of machinery, the chatter of people. Sam could feel the hot flush of embarrassment spread across his face like spilled wine. He stepped away from the scout, who was watching him fondly.

“Thanks for, uh… well. Thanks.” Sam said, stumbling over his words. He meant to express his appreciation for the reassurance, for the comfort, for the encouragement—but the words didn’t make it over his addled tongue.

Bumblebee’s optics brightened in amusement.

“No thanks are necessary. Now go, you don’t want to be late.”

Sam stroked the yellow plating on the scout’s arm, before turning and walking towards the North Quad doors. He heard the sound of transformation behind him, and he glanced back to see Bumblebee shifting into alt mode. The Camaro flicked his high beams at him, and then accelerated in the direction of West Quad. Sam watched as he disappeared around the wide bend in the corridor, and then he stepped through the large red quad doors.

Sam had to hurry to make it back to his apartment on time. Less than ten minutes later, he booted up his computer as he sat at the desk. He was out of breath and sweating like a dockworker, but he made it onto the Zoom call with over a minute to spare. The lecture was on the prehistory of southeast Asia, with a focus on Austronesian expansion across the Pacific. The context was interesting, but the content and the delivery were dry. Sam struggled to appear interested and engaged for the camera. It wasn’t long before his mind began to wander, and he began thinking about the events of that morning. Although time and Bumblebee’s affection had softened his jealousy, he was still put off by the memory of Mearing climbing into his driver’s seat. It wasn’t that he felt threatened by it, because he wasn’t, but Sam didn’t like it either.

“Mr. Witwicky? Is your audio working?”

Sam snapped back to himself so quickly that it left him reeling.

“I’m sorry, what?” He stammered.

His professor’s eyebrow quirked up in a way that made Sam want to disappear into the floor. His expression was simultaneously disapproving and irritated.

“I asked how the Austronesian expansion affected commerce from southeast Asia to Micronesia.”

Sam’s mind blanked and he knew a moment of heartfelt panic, before his bullshit reflex kicked in. He thought back over the readings that he had completed earlier in the week, and smiled confidently into the web camera.

“Many of the sea routes became trade routes over time, allowing for the movement of teas, spices, and silks from Madagascar to southeast Asia, even as far away as New Zealand.”

His professor’s mouth quirked up in a half-smile.

“That’s correct. Nice save, by the way.”

The professor continued the lecture without missing a beat. Sam re-muted his mic and exhaled a long, low breath. He spent the rest of the hour steadfastly listening to every word that left his professor’s mouth. By the time that the lecture ended, he was tired and hungry. He shut off his computer, and tossed his headset onto the desk as he leaned back in the chair. His mind stretched outwards, enjoying the vastness of the neural-net. Occasionally, he brushed against a spark signature in greeting. He was always met with some combination of _welcome_ and _amusement_ and _curiosity._ When he noticed Hot Rod’s rosy glow, Sam felt a familiar stab of apprehension. He touched the warm light, as though to reassure himself that he was all right.

At once, Hot Rod’s presence pressed back against him.

_//What’s kickin’, little chicken?//_

Sam’s eyes snapped open as he sat upright in his chair.

 _//Hot Rod?//_ He asked, incredulously, _//You’re awake?//_

_//I’m no expert, but I believe that’s the medical term for it, yes.//_

_//Shut-up, you smartass.//_ Sam replied sarcastically, _//Are you alright?//_

_//Yes ma’am. Ratchet fixed me up as good as new, hashtag: blessed.//_

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and shoved at the cavalier’s mental presence instead. He felt a burst of amusement from Roddy that did more to assuage Sam’s worry than all of the reassurances he’d received so far combined.

 _//When is Ratchet releasing you?//_ He asked.

_//I’m on phase one of a three phase plan to get him to release me early. I think it’s going well.//_

Sam’s attention flicked towards the Creator bond, which was still and quiet. He could sense Ratchet’s presence as easily as he could Bumblebee’s, but the medic did not seem overtly irritated.

 _//It’ll be your funeral.//_ Sam warned him.

He felt the mental equivalent of a shrug.

_//The key is subtly.//_

Sam laughed aloud, shaking his head as he climbed to his feet. His stomach was beginning to pang with hunger, and he decided it was time for an early lunch.

_//You’re about a subtle as a brick in the face.//_

_//Thank-you.//_

Sam chuckled to himself as he grabbed his identification badge and cell phone. He slipped the lanyard over his head and pushed the phone into his pocket, before heading towards the door.

_//I’m glad you’re okay. I was worried.//_

Hot Rod’s mental presence undulated strangely, a crack in his cheery façade. The cavalier waited a beat too long to be considered casual before he replied, _//No reason to stress. I’m fine.//_

Sam stepped into the hallway and pulled the door closed behind him. He could tell that Hot Rod’s injuries had affected him more than he was letting on, but he didn’t know the cavalier well enough to tell whether he should push in or back off. Either his hesitation was telling or Hot Rod was following his train of thought, for the cavalier’s mental presence softened minutely.

_//Sam—//_

Abruptly, Hot Rod’s mental presence disappeared. Sam felt a moment of profound disorientation, followed by a surge of fear, and then the Creator bond _swelled_ forebodingly. All at once, Sam understood what had happened. He braced himself in preparation just as Ratchet’s disapproval rocked through their bond.

 _//Ratch, I’m sorry–//_ Sam started, but the medic cut him off.

_//I am not upset with you, Sam. **You** did not know any better.//_

The medic’s tone was clipped and terse, and he winced in response. Sam brushed against the ageless glow in his mind tentatively, almost imploringly. The storm of Ratchet’s temper seemed to calm, and Sam could feel the weight of his regard.

He gathered up his courage and said in a rush, _//Go easy on Roddy. He’s shaken up.//_

Sam hadn’t meant his words as an admonishment, but they came out that way. Ratchet _harrumphed_ in response, but his mental presence seemed to be contemplative rather than angry. Small mercies, Sam supposed. After a moment, Ratchet brushed over his mind. The touch was gentle and assessing. 

_//I will take that under advisement, thank-you Sam.//_ Ratchet said, before adding gruffly, _//Get something to eat. Your blood sugar is low.//_

Sam could not prevent the smile that spread across his face.

_//I’m already on my way to the mess.//_

There was a brief sense of satisfaction, and then Ratchet’s mental presence retreated. Sam observed him quietly as he walked, taking in the way the medic’s appearance shifted, brightening and dimming as he worked. It was like watching a star glimmer in the firmament, beautiful and alien. Sam was surprised by the almost painful swell of affection that he felt at the sight. He had known that Ratchet meant a lot to him, of course, but it wasn’t until that moment that he realized just how much he loved the old medic.

The thought accompanied him all the way to the mess hall. He was so distracted by thoughts of Ratchet and Hot Rod and his new normal, that he did not realize the man in front of him had stopped to pour himself a coffee. Sam walked straight into him, causing the man to stumble back a step and spill coffee everywhere.

“I’m so sorry!” Sam apologized immediately, “I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.”

“That’s alright.” The man laughed, dabbing at the coffee on his uniform with a handful of napkins, “It happens to the best of us.”

Sam grabbed the napkins off his own tray and handed them to him. The man accepted them with a grin, and scrubbed at his sleeve. It did nothing to remedy the stain that spread across the fabric.

“Still, I’m sorry all the same.” Sam said, “Is there anything I can do?”

The man laughed again good-naturedly, gesturing towards the napkin holder. Sam reached forward and grabbed it off the galley, before handing it to him. The man pulled out half a dozen napkins and blotted up the coffee on the silver metal counter. Sam grabbed a handful of napkins and followed his lead.

“It’s fine sir, really.” The man replied, his smile deepening, “It’s nice to meet you, by the way.”

All at once, Sam remembered his manners. He restrained a wince and extended his hand, which the lieutenant accepted.

“It’s nice to meet you too. Sam Witwicky.” 

“Yeah, I know.” He replied humorously, “My name’s Luis Novo.” 

The name sounded familiar, and Sam regarded him more closely. The man was young, perhaps late twenties, with olive skin and dark hair. He wore a United States Air Force uniform, which was immaculate except for the coffee staining his sleeve. After a long moment, the recognition came to him.

“Lieutenant Novo, I remember you. From the beach, right?”

Novo’s expression became wry as they continued down the galley.

“Yeah, that was me. I was doing push-ups until shift rotation. I had sand in every crevice of my body for days.”

Sam laughed sympathetically. The man had an easy-going demeanor that reminded him of Dave and a dry humor that reminded him of Killian. They continued down the galley as Sam picked out his lunch, and after they paid for their meals, they parted ways. Novo raised his coffee cup in farewell as he made his way out of the mess hall. Sam waved back at him, and then carried his tray to an empty table. The pho was rich and flavorable, and it warmed him from the inside out.

When he finished his lunch, Sam made to carry his tray past the cash registers when something caught his eye. He paused mid-step, turning to regard the brightly colored confectionary that was arranged in a display near the end of the galley. He stared at the candy, his throat thick with emotion and his hands white-knuckled around the tray. After a long moment, Sam forced himself to relax his grip. He ambled towards the display, and looked down at the tidy row of M&Ms tucked between all manner of unfamiliar brands. He had walked passed this display every day but he had never noticed the chocolate before.

As though in a trance, Sam retrieved several packages of M&Ms and made his way toward the cash registers. The cashier’s eyebrows rose to her hairline at the unusual purchase, but she didn’t comment as she rung him up and swiped his card. As soon as the machine blinked green, Sam murmured his appreciation and pushed the candy into his pockets. He strode across the mess hall towards the bins, before scraping his dishes and stacking his tray. By the time that he had made it back to his apartment, Sam knew what he wanted to do.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note** : Thank-you all so much for sticking by me!

Sam paced his apartment, trying to put his thoughts in order. He wanted to speak with Thundercracker, to thank him for his kindness, but he knew there was no way that Ratchet would agree. The medic had been unyielding where the topic of his wellbeing was concerned. The thought both warmed and frustrated him. Sam sighed softly, folding his arms over his chest as he made another circuit around the couch. The package of M&Ms sat on the coffee table like a piece of forensic evidence, incriminating and significant.

As he mulled over his options, Sam’s mind turned inwards. The neural-net was much the same as it had been that morning, _thrumming_ with the close proximity of so many spark signatures. It was a pleasant sensation, almost soothing, like white noise in his mind. Idly, he wondered what the neural-network would have been like on Cybertron. There had been millions of mechanoids alive at the height of the Golden Age; the neural-network must have been alight with their presence. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, it made Sam’s chest ache with empathy. The Autobots were a highly social people, perhaps even more so than his own. Although they rarely expressed affection through physical touch, their electromagnetic fields and their neural connections provided the closeness they needed. The emptiness of the neural-net in the aftermath of the Great War must have been like a physical wound. Raw and gaping.

With conscious effort, Sam set the thought aside and cast his mind across the vast expanse. He slipped between the signatures that glowed at him, bioluminescent and lovely. Occasionally, he bumped against one of them by accident. Each time, he was met with a start of _surprise_ or _amusement_ , and then a caress would brush across his mind. It was a familiar greeting by now, and Sam fumbled in his attempt to return it. When he strayed too close to Sunstreaker, he could feel the warrior’s tolerant amusement before he encouraged Sam along with a mental _nudge_.

It did not take Sam long to find what he was looking for. Thundercracker’s spark signature was pale white, softer and more diffuse than Bumblebee’s. It was clustered with a number of other signatures that Sam recognized, including Ratchet’s own. He stared at the Seeker for a long while, considering his course of action, when he felt a pulse of _warning_. Sam startled slightly in surprise, and it was only then that he became aware of Ratchet’s scrutiny. It left Sam with a guilty feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

He hesitated for a long moment and then said, tentatively, _//He wouldn’t hurt me.//_

Ratchet’s presence sharpened with disapproval, and Sam winced in response. Knowing full well that he was close to being corralled back within the Creator bond, Sam brushed across Ratchet’s ancient glow. The touch was plaintive and placating, all at once.

 _//Will you at least consider it?//_ Sam asked. 

By way of answer, Ratchet gave him a firm mental _push_. It was impossible to misinterpret the meaning behind the gesture, and Sam withdrew without complaint—arguing with the medic would be a waste of time. When he was back within the quiet of his own mind, Sam opened his eyes and was surprised to find that almost an hour had passed. It hadn’t seemed that long.

With a put-upon sigh, Sam walked over to his desk. He stared at the assortment of textbooks and printouts, before he settled on a thick paperback titled _Routledge Handbook of Southeast Asian Development._ He retrieved the book and an assortment of writing implements, making his way over to the couch. He dropped the items onto the coffee table, made himself a cup of coffee from his new Keurig, and then sat down for some self-inflicted torture. He turned to where he’d left off, _Chapter 7: The International Labor Organization as a Development Actor in Southeast Asia,_ and began reading.

Despite its overly stiff and formal language, Sam found himself intrigued by the content of the chapter. He jotted notes in the margins and highlighted relevant sections as he read. He was in the process of highlighting a block of text near the end of the chapter when he felt a swell of _amusement_ across the spark bond. A moment later, Bumblebee’s arms wrapped around him from behind, and the holoform rested his chin on Sam’s shoulder.

“Why bother highlighting entire paragraphs? Doesn’t that negate the point?”

Sam angled his head to grin at him.

“Don’t judge me, old man.” He teased, “I have a system.”

The holoform huffed in exasperation, before pressing a kiss into the tender flesh below Sam’s ear. Sam hummed at him approvingly, and then turned the page. They stayed there like that until Sam finished the chapter. When he was done, Sam dog-eared the page and closed the book, tossing it onto the coffee table. Bumblebee didn’t move from where he stood draped over the couch, and Sam reached up to clasp his arm. The holoform nuzzled against him, simulated breath warm on his neck, and Sam felt the first stirrings of arousal.

“What’s this then?” He asked, voice husky. 

Bumblebee caught his earlobe between his teeth, and Sam shivered in response.

“It’s an apology, I suppose. We’re expected at the command center at five o’clock.”

Sam glanced at the digital display on the DVR. It was 4:27 PM. He tipped his head to the side, trying to do the math, when Bumblebee chuckled quietly.

“Later, I promise. Go and get ready, they’ll be waiting on us.”

Sam groaned in protest, but he stood up all the same. Bumblebee straightened as Sam made his way around the couch.

“What’s the meeting about?” He asked, heading for the bathroom.

“It’s a debriefing. We’ll be having them every day while the Director is here.”

Sam mulled over this new information as he relieved himself. When he finished, he washed his hands and took a minute to brush his teeth. He didn’t want to inflict his coffee breath on anyone. Sam considered himself before heading out of the bathroom and, deciding that his clothes were fine for a debriefing, returned to the living room.

“Do you know how long this is going to take? I haven’t had dinner yet.”

The holoform tilted his head, seemingly considering the question.

“I can’t say for certain. Bring a snack, in case you get hungry.” Bumblebee suggested.

Sam nodded in understanding, and fetched his messenger bag from its spot by the door. The faded brown satchel had been a gift to himself shortly after he had begun classes. Sam pushed his planner, a bottle of water, and some granola bars into the main pouch before slinging it over his shoulder. He glanced around his apartment, confirming that the lights were off and his Keurig was unplugged, before he grabbed his identification badge and cell phone.

“Alright, let’s head over.” He said, pulling open his front door and stepping into the hall.

Bumblebee followed behind him, and in short order, they were walking towards the bridge entrance. It was a quiet afternoon, which was not terribly surprising given the lunch hour. They passed Epps near the enlisted barracks. The Chief Master Sergeant was speaking with two officers that Sam didn’t recognize, and he stopped mid-sentence to nod at him in greeting. Sam crooked a smile and nodded back. The two men with him turned their heads to follow Epps’ line of sight. Their expressions became a combination of curiosity and surprise when they laid eyes on him. Sam nodded at them both, and then continued on towards the bridge.

Bumblebee walked at his side, hands in his pockets. The holoform’s posture was comfortable and relaxed, a marked change from earlier that morning. Sam glanced sidelong at him, a thought suddenly occurring to him.

“Does Mearing know about your holoform?” He asked.

Bumblebee’s eyebrows rose in surprise. He seemed to consider the question for a moment before answering.

“She knows about holoform technology, of course. Optimus has met with numerous American representatives in his holoform, both in-person and remotely. I do not know whether she knows about my holoform in particular. I would assume not.”

Sam nodded faintly, stewing over his words for the length of a hallway. The thought of Mearing laying her hands on Bumblebee was unpleasant, but the thought of her doing so to his holoform took Sam’s breath away. He knew that the holoform was no more a part of Bumblebee than his chassis or his spark, but it felt entirely different. It felt more personal, more intimate. Sam set his jaw as familiar possessiveness washed through him. He longed to ask Bumblebee to keep his holoform to himself, but he didn’t. Sam’s hang-ups weren’t Bumblebee’s problem.

By the time that they reached the bridge, Sam was lost in his thoughts. He knew that Bumblebee was watching him closely, but the scout didn’t press him to talk about it. The holoform was at his side until the moment that Sam climbed into the Camaro, and then he disappeared as the door swung shut behind him. Sam settled into the familiar seat, his messenger bag in his lap, as Bumblebee accelerated in the direction of West Quad. To his surprise, Bumblebee’s multimedia interface lit up as the scout navigated through the Sirius XM radio menu. Sam smiled fondly at the dash as the sound of classic rock filled the cabin.

They drove in companionable silence all the way to the West Quad entrance. Sam propped his elbow against the door and rested his head on his hand. As the song ended and the next song began, he felt a swell of melancholy. In the darkened cab, with _Comfortably Numb_ playing in surround sound, Sam was reminded of all the evenings they’d driven together after school. They had spent hours exploring every road and dirt trail around Serenity as they came to know one another. Thinking back on it now, it seemed like an eternity ago.

“I miss driving with you.” Sam said, glancing at the dashboard.

“I miss it as well.” Bumblebee replied, turning down the long corridor that would take them to the command center. As they passed the medical bay, Ratchet’s alt mode pulled out of the large hangar and followed behind them. Sam twisted, trying to get a glimpse inside the room, but they passed too quickly for him to manage it. He turned back around with a sigh.

“One day, when this is all over, I want to go somewhere with you. Just the two of us.” Sam said, staring at the ceiling, “I’ve always wanted to see the Grand Canyon.”

Bumblebee’s mental presence leaned into his mind, like an embrace.

“I’d like that.” He murmured.

Sam nodded faintly, but he didn’t reply. He knew that the scout was only humoring him. Even if they managed to root out every Decepticon on Earth, they would never be able to take off together. The Autobots were known now, as was Sam himself. There was nowhere on the planet that they would be safe from prying eyes or the risk of an attack.

It was a depressing thought, and by the time they reached the command center, Sam had fallen into a sullen silence. Bumblebee pulled up next to the metal scaffold, opening the door as soon as he came to a stop. Sam climbed out of the cab without a word, making his way up the stairs and onto the platform. The scaffold was large by human standards. A long row of computer terminals ran down its full length, leaving a walkway about two meters wide by the railing for foot traffic. Less than a third of the computers were manned this afternoon, and most of those were in the bullpen, a large cordoned off area against the far wall. Sam expected to find Dave Carter near their customary spot about halfway down the walkway. To his surprise, however, the agent was sitting at the conference table located further down the row. The table was situated against the guardrail, and it had an unobstructed view of the floor. Director Mearing and Agent Miller sat to Dave’s right. Both women were watching the bustle of the command center with obvious interest.

As though summoned by his thoughts, Dave turned in his seat and caught Sam’s eye. The agent beckoned him over, gesturing to the empty chair beside him. Sam made his way down the scaffold, pulling his messenger bag off his shoulder as he took the proffered seat. As soon as he was settled, Carter slid a piece of paper towards him. Sam picked it up, unsurprised to find that it outlined the meeting’s agenda. There were eighteen bullet points, which included _MECH Sitrep (Mearing), Security Upgrades - Quarterly Report (Red Alert),_ and, further down the page, _Embassy Preparations (Fowler)._

Sam grimaced internally. _This is going to take forever._

He opened the messenger bag and pulled out the bottle of water, notebook, and pen. As he cracked open the bottle and took a drink, Sam watched the activity on the floor in front of them. The Autobots were arranged around the large conference table according to rank. Bumblebee, Cliffjumper, and Hot Rod stood together at the far end of the table, while Optimus, Jazz, and Prowl stood at the end nearer to Sam. Ironhide and Ratchet stood together, as they usually did, off to one side. Ironhide’s arms were folded over his chassis, and he was observing the room with cool optics. More people trickled into the command center in pairs and small groups, making their way onto the scaffold or to the workstations located on the ground-level. There air was filled with the murmur of hushed talking and the hum of computer equipment.

“Hello again, Ambassador.”

Sam was brought back to himself by Mearing’s greeting. He turned his head, leaning forward slightly to see around Carter, and nodded at her.

“Good afternoon, Director.” He replied politely, before adding on rote, “Please, call me Sam.”

Mearing seemed to consider him for a moment, before she nodded. “Alright, I will. Thank-you, Sam.”

Sam’s mind blanked as he realized he had no idea how to make small talk with her. The only thing they had in common was Bumblebee, and that wasn’t a subject that he wanted to discuss. Thankfully, Carter was capable of making small talk with anyone.

“Did you find the office agreeable, Director?” He asked, swiveling his chair to look at her.

Sam felt a moment of profound relief as Mearing’s attention focused on Carter instead of him.

“Yes, thank-you. We have everything we need.”

“I didn’t get a chance to show you this morning, but there’s an office supply depot in Human Resources. Printer paper, ink, post-it notes, that sort of thing. I can show you after the briefing, if you like.”

Before Mearing had the chance to reply, Miller leaned forward to smile at him. “That would be much appreciated, thanks Dave.”

Dave smiled back at her, and the two of them struck up a conversation about expensing costs. Sam listened with half an ear for a few moments, before boredom had him glancing down at the floor. He saw that Ultra Magnus, Kup, Smokescreen, and Elita-One had joined the assembled group of Autobots. They took their positions as Optimus regarded the room in silence. As soon as the clock rolled over to five o’clock, he called the debriefing to order. Sam sat up straighter in his chair, focusing all of his attention on the Autobot leader’s welcome and introduction of Director Mearing. When Optimus had finished speaking, Mearing stood up, straightening her blazer as she stepped towards the railing.

“Thank-you for that warm introduction.” She began, formal and precise, “The purpose of my presence is to share what intelligence we have gathered regarding the domestic threat known as MECH.” As soon as the words left her mouth, a two-dimensional rendering of the MECH leader appeared above the Autobot’s conference table. Beside it was a topographical map of Nevada with several points circled in red.

“This is what we know to date. Former army Colonel Leland Bishop was a member of the Special Operations division. He was originally stationed at Tyndall Air Force Base, and was later assigned to the Rocky Mountain Arsenal before its closure in 2012.”

A three-dimensional rendering of a satellite appeared over the conference table next to Leland’s photograph. It rotated slowly on its x-axis, and Sam leaned forward to get a better look.

“The following information is classified. The RMA was a weapons manufacturing plant that produced both conventional and chemical munitions. Bishop led a team of researchers who sought to develop a weapon capable of targeting any location on Earth from high orbit.”

Sam stared at Mearing in stunned disbelief. He was no historian, but Sam was knew that the Geneva Convention forbade the use of chemical and biological weapons in war. What was the United States doing producing them in the first place?

“Project Damocles was decommissioned in 2016. No, the date is not a coincidence. When the American government learned of Cybertronian technology, more specifically Soundwave’s ability to hijack satellites, the project was deemed a threat to national security. Colonel Bishop objected strenuously to the decision.” 

The three-dimensional rendering of the satellite disappeared, and the map of Nevada enlarged to take its place. Mearing gestured meaningfully towards the map.

“After the project was cancelled, Bishop began to recruit current and former members of the American military. The men and women that he targeted were… radicalized by the Mission City attack, and by the government’s classification of what had happened as top-secret. Bishop believed that national security would be better served by forcibly obtaining Cybertronian technology before it fell into the hands of our enemies.”

“How did he propose to do that?” Will asked, cutting Mearing off before she could continue. Sam glanced over his shoulder to find that the Major had come up behind them. His arms were folded over his chest, his expression grim.

The Director turned to look at him, cool and disapproving.

“Do not interrupt me, Major. I will entertain questions at the end of my presentation.”

Will’s jaw tightened perceptibly, but he did not argue. Mearing stared at him for a moment longer, allowing the rebuke to linger, before she turned back towards the holoform. She continued speaking as though she hadn’t been interrupted.

“When Bishop’s petitions to the Secretary of Defense were denied, he went AWOL. Before he deserted his post, however, he was able to secure a significant amount of munitions and intelligence. We know that he has sold schematics from Project Damocles and one thousand pounds of lewisite to Russia. We can safely assume that the rest of his intelligence has also been sold, or will be shortly, in order to fund his operations.”

Sam heard a sharp inhale from beside him. He turned his head, surprised to see Carter’s strained expression.

“What is it?” He asked the man in a whisper.

“Lewisite is a chemical weapon. It’s both a blistering agent and a lung irritant.”

“That sounds bad.” Sam replied, frowning.

“That’s because it is bad.” Will said. Sam turned his head to find the soldier standing at his side, staring resolutely at the hologram hovering in the center of the room, “Russia has no compunctions against violating international law. They would have paid a fortune for it.”

Sam swallowed against the growing unease that thickened his throat. He reached forward to grab his water, and then took another long drink. Mearing continued speaking about the specifics of the intelligence that had been compromised. The names of the projects were meaningless to him, and Sam glanced back at Will.

“I don’t understand.” He whispered, “What’s the United States doing manufacturing chemical weapons? It’s illegal.”

Will frowned down at him. “Don’t be naïve. It’s illegal to use them, it’s not illegal to own them. The US believes in nuclear and chemical deterrence.”

The unease in Sam’s gut was slowly but surely turning to dread. In front of them, Mearing continued her briefing.

“We estimate that MECH has upwards of two hundred active members, including at least twenty senior officers from the Air Force and the Marine Corps. They are well trained, they know how we operate, and they are well funded. Additionally, Silas has made it clear that he has no qualms about civilian casualties. It will not be an easy matter to root him out.”

Mearing paused then, as though she were choosing her next words very carefully.

“Lastly, we have reason to believe that Silas may have gained sympathy within certain conservative circles of the American government. We are surveilling three members of Congress, one member of the Cabinet, and three ranking officials within the military for suspected ties to Silas’ organization.”

Sam felt a directionless swell of _emotion_ that became more intense as Mearing continued speaking. It was a dizzying sensation, too chaotic to interpret, but he understood the sentiment well enough: the Autobots were outraged. As she described the political ideologies of the suspected collaborators, the feeling became deeper still and more pronounced. Sam winced in response, bracing his hands against the table. It was the mental equivalent of holding a live wire—overstimulating and painful. After several long, torturous moments, he _bucked_ against the sensation as hard as he could manage.

The reaction was instantaneous. In any other circumstance, Sam might have found it comical. The assembled Autobots went rigid, their helms turning in his direction. Their expressions were an assortment of surprise, and chagrin, and concern. In the same instant, Ratchet’s presence was in his mind, and between one second and the next, the sensation vanished. Sam could not prevent the sound of relief that escaped him.

After a moment, Sam became aware of Ratchet’s scrutiny. The medic smoothed over Sam’s mind, his touch clinical and searching. This closely connected, it was impossible to misinterpret his concern.

 _//I’m fine, Ratch.//_ Sam managed, before adding dryly, _//You guys are intense when you’re pissed.//_

Ratchet snorted at him, continuing his mental pat down as though Sam hadn’t spoken. Seemingly satisfied with whatever he found, the medic withdrew from his mind. It was then that Sam realized he was still on the neural-network, rather than inside the Creator bond. When he opened his eyes a moment later, it was to the sight of Ratchet standing in front of him. The medic stared down at him expectantly.

 _//Your firewalls are down.//_ He said gruffly.

Sam rolled his eyes.

_//I can’t concentrate on the firewalls and Mearing at the same time.//_

_//You’re going to have to get used to it.//_

_//It’s uncomfortable.//_ Sam replied tersely.

Ratchet narrowed his optics, _//Don’t argue with me.//_

Sam grimaced at his harsh tone, but he obeyed without further protest. With a modicum of effort, Sam pushed the firewalls into place. Ratchet stared at him for a moment longer, and then he brushed approvingly across Sam’s mind.

The rest of the debriefing was faintly akin to torture. Sam had to force himself to pay attention when Mearing opened the floor. Lennox was the first to raise his hand, and he repeated his question from earlier. Mearing nodded at him and informed the room at large that the United States government believed the attack was intended to capture or kill one of the Autobots. It did not take long for the implications of her words to become clear. There were follow-up questions, but Sam struggled to follow the conversation. He was sweating with the strain of keeping his firewalls in place before Red Alert even began his report.

Carter gave him a sympathetic look, and quietly urged Sam to eat something. Sam grumbled in complaint, but he pulled a granola bar out of his bag all the same. He found that eating helped, and Sam finished the other two granola bars in quick succession. It was the better part of an hour before Optimus introduced a heavy-set, middle-aged man named Agent Fowler. Sam perked up, remembering his name from the agenda. Agent William Fowler turned out to be a no-nonsense, gruff individual who vaguely reminded Sam of Ironhide. He provided his credentials—twenty years as an Army Ranger, two tours in Afghanistan and one in Qatar—before launching into a brief but thorough description of the modifications to the Cold War era bunker that would be Sam’s residence for the foreseeable future. He learned that it was a relatively small base, less than two square kilometers, compared to Diego Garcia’s twenty-seven. It contained a barracks, officers’ quarters, a mess, and a “small but adequate” situation room. The biggest concern, explained Fowler, was the fact the bunker was built into the side of a mountain. Although this provided additional protection in the event of a nuclear attack, it would severely constrain the Autobot’s holotechnology.

Ratchet interrupted Fowler to ask a series of questions about medical equipment that went completely over Sam’s head. If Fowler was put out by the interruption, it certainly didn’t show in his demeanor. He answered him in the same matter-of-fact tone that he had given his presentation. Jazz spoke next, asking several questions about security and duty rotations, but by that time, Sam had reached his limit. He let go of his firewalls with an audible groan, massaging his fingers into his temples. He could feel Bumblebee’s concern a moment before the scout’s mental presence pressed around him.

The rest of the meeting passed by in a miserable blur. He was bored, hungry, and his head hurt. He was aware of Ratchet’s scrutiny, but the medic did not seem particularly sympathetic to his plight. Sam didn’t realize that the meeting had been called to an end until Dave Carter began to gather up his things. Sam knew a moment of profound relief— _oh thank God_ —before he caught sight of Agent Fowler making his way down the scaffold in their direction. Sam tucked his notebook and garbage back into his bag as he stood up to greet him.

“Mr. Witwicky, I’m Agent William Fowler.”

The older man stuck a beefy hand in his direction, and Sam accepted it. Fowler’s grip was sure and firm, not the bone-crushing press that Sam had expected.

“It’s nice to meet you, Agent Fowler. Please, call me Sam.”

Fowler stared at him for a long moment, as though appraising him. Eventually, he nodded.

“Call me Bill. I’m not real big on pomp and circumstance.”

Sam laughed quietly as he shouldered the messenger bag, “That makes two of us.” 

Bill’s mouth turned up as though in amusement, but when he spoke, his tone was all business.

“I am in charge of security at the embassy. Although I was recommended by the American government, I was chosen by Optimus Prime. In addition to overseeing the renovations to the bunker, I’m also in charge of the agents who will be responsible for your protection.”

Sam grimaced faintly, but Bill continued without waiting for his response. Judging by the look on his face, however, he hadn’t missed Sam’s distaste.

“Your personal security detail includes four agents from the Secret Service and the Department of State.” Bill opened the worn, leather briefcase that he was carrying, and handed Sam a thick manila folder, “You’ll find all of their relevant information in there. Please vet it carefully before Friday.” 

Sam opened the folder to find a detailed fact-sheet staring back at him, including the photograph of a serious-looking older man. He flipped through several pages before glancing back at Bill.

“Why Friday?”

“Haven’t you heard?” He asked good-naturedly, “You’re bridging over Friday morning.”

Sam’s eyebrows drew up, and he glanced back down at the folder in his hands.

“I hadn’t, no. Things have been… hectic.” He murmured, before adding, “Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Not a problem. Your security detail and I will be your main points of contact at the embassy. If you don’t have any objections to what you read in that file, they’ll greet you when we arrive.”

“Uh, thanks. I’ll read it over tonight.”

Fowler nodded at him, “That’d be helpful. We can touch base tomorrow.”

After that, Fowler made his way back across the scaffold. To Sam’s surprise, Jazz stepped up to the railing and began to speak with him in low tones. Fowler’s easy-going body language suggested that it wasn’t the first time he had spoken with the second-in-command. Sam stared at them for a moment longer, before his stomach grumbled and he was reminded of his hunger. He waved good-bye to Dave, who was chatting with Mearing and Miller, and then booked it towards the stairs. If he hurried, there might still be sweet and spicy chicken at the mess.

* * *

That evening found Sam sprawled out on the couch with his head in Bumblebee’s lap. He flipped through the files that Fowler had given him—there was more reading than Sam had realized—as ESPN played in the background. Bumblebee carded his fingers through Sam’s hair, occasionally tugging on the short curls, causing pleasant goosebumps to break out over Sam’s arms. It was just after nine o’clock when Sam sighed, stuffing the papers back into the folder and tossing it onto the coffee table.

“Problem?” Bumblebee murmured.

Sam let his eyes drift closed and folded his hands to rest on his belly.

“No, not really. It’s just… it’s all the same to me, you know?”

“I suppose so.” Bumblebee replied, “What did you think?”

“They’re all highly experienced, highly decorated, and highly recommended. I don’t see any red flags.”

“But?” Bumblebee prompted, lightly dragging his fingernails over Sam’s scalp. The motion caused Sam to shiver pleasantly from head to toe.

“But nothing, I guess. If I need a security detail, they seem as good as any.”

Bumblebee made a considerate noise as his hand dropped down to Sam’s trapezius. He rubbed the pad of his thumb firmly into the muscle, drawing out a low groan of appreciation. Bumblebee continued to massage the muscles of his neck and shoulders until Sam felt limper than a wet dishrag.

“That feels… ugh, so good.”

“Yes, I know.” Bumblebee replied. He sounded just as relaxed as Sam felt, and for some reason, that amused him to no end.

“You hijacking my endocrine system, Bee?” Sam asked without opening his eyes. 

“Not hijacking, no. Borrowing, certainly.” Bumblebee replied.

Sam huffed a quiet laugh, “Well you can ride high on dopamine and serotonin whenever you like. Consider this a standing invitation.”

Bumblebee chuckled at him, his hands going back to comb through Sam’s hair.

“Human physiology is a marvel. I didn’t think I would enjoy it as much as I do.” He admitted.

Before Sam could reply, his cell phone began to buzz insistently on the coffee table. Sam cracked open an eye, turning his head to look at it.

“Who is it?” He asked, debating whether it was worth answering.

“It’s Carter, it might be important.”

Sam sat up with a groan, swinging his legs over the side of the couch. Bumblebee leaned forward, picking up the cell phone and handing it to him. Sam glanced at the display for a moment, before accepting the call and bringing the device to his ear.

“Carter, what’s up?”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, before Dave cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry, Sam, did I wake you?”

“No, I’m up. What’s going on?”

There was another silence, longer than the first, before Dave sighed softly.

“Are you free? I could use some company.”

The sound of Dave’s tired voice gripped him like a vice. All at once, the pleasant haze in which he had been floating disappeared, replaced with stark concern. Sam pushed himself to his feet and strode towards his bedroom.

“Yeah, of course. Give me a minute to get dressed. Where are you?”

“I’m at my apartment. I was trying to finish the rest of Killian’s paperwork when… I just can’t—“ Dave’s voice was soft, far softer than Sam had ever heard him before. It caused anxiety to twist in his gut like the blade of a knife. He glanced up to see Bumblebee watching him from the doorway to his bedroom. The holoform’s expression was knowing.

“Yes, absolutely. I’ll be there in two seconds.” Sam pulled the receiver away from his ear long enough to pull his shirt over his head, “Do you need anything?”

Dave laughed, but it was hallow sounding.

“Do you have any alcohol?”

Sam winced in response. Dave rarely drank outside of social occasions.

“I have the scotch you gave me when the 49ers lost the Superbowl.”

Dave laughed again, this time with a bit more of his usual vim.

“Bring it."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note** : For the first time in months, I enjoyed writing every single word of this chapter. I hope you enjoy it as well. 
> 
> Starting this chapter, italicized speech in quotation marks is spoken Cybertronian.
> 
> Also, for reference, [this picture](https://imgur.com/a/H80ir5G) loosely inspired Dave Carter's apartment.

Dave’s apartment was located on the opposite end of the Officer’s section. It took Sam the better part of five minutes to walk there. He paused after he arrived, taking a moment to steel himself, before rapping his knuckles against the door. Sam did not have to wait long—Dave pulled the door open only a few seconds later. Sam took in the sight of the older man, doing his best to keep the concern off his face. Dave looked haggard. He was dressed far more casually than Sam was used to seeing him. His jeans were faded and loose, his shirt was threadbare. Behind the dark frames of his glasses, Dave’s eyes were tired. 

“Hey Dave. Here.” Sam said, extending the bottle of Glenlivet towards him. It still had the black ribbon tied around its neck. Dave glanced down and his lips twitched in amusement. He accepted the bottle, and then stepped aside so that Sam could enter.

“Make yourself at home.” Dave said, gesturing towards the couch.

Dave’s apartment was larger and nicer than Sam’s apartment. The living room was furnished with dark leather and wood, which contrasted tastefully against the gray accent wall. The living space flowed into a small kitchenette on the opposite side of the room. The apartment was decorated with paintings and décor that matched Dave’s contemporary style. Sam had only been in his apartment a handful of times in the past, and never to visit.

As Sam toed off his shoes and made his way over to the couch, Dave strode towards the kitchenette. The older man opened the bottle of Glenlivet with a practiced twist of his wrist, and poured a generous serving into two tumblers. He set the bottle on the counter, and brought the drinks into the living room.

“Cheers.” He said, handing Sam one of the glasses. Sam accepted it, his eyes never leaving Dave’s face.

“What’s up, Carter?” He asked.

Dave grimaced as he sat on the opposite end of the couch. He took a drink of the amber liquid, and then tipped his head towards the coffee table. Sam turned to regard the mess of papers that were strewn across the wood surface. The nearest one was a cremation authorization form. The form beside it was a funeral services contract. Sam reached forward to pick up the latter, a frown playing over his face.

“You shouldn’t be the one to do this.” He said, gaze flicking towards Dave.

The older man raised a shoulder in a shrug, “There’s no one else. Killian was estranged from his family.”

Sam hesitated, trying to find the words to be as delicate as possible.

“Someone else could do it. Will or Prowl or even Optimus.”

Dave’s brow furrowed, and he shook his head.

“No, not Will. He’s not in a good place, and not Prowl or Optimus, either. It should be someone who knew him.” The words sounded grim, as though each one had cost him dearly. Sam looked from the hard set of his jaw to the paperwork in his hands, and nodded slowly.

“Alright. Okay. Let’s do this, you and me.”

Dave looked momentarily surprised, and then his expression softened in appreciation.

“That’s kind of you to offer, but I didn’t invite you over to pawn this off on you. I just needed a break.”

Sam nodded again, this time with more determination.

“So let’s take a break, and when you’re feeling up to it, we’ll finish this.”

When Dave opened his mouth as though to argue, Sam rolled his eyes and fixed him with a look.

“I’m not leaving until it’s done, so put up or shut up.”

His words startled a huff of laughter from the older man. He seemed to consider Sam for a moment, and then he extended his tumbler towards him.

“Put up or shut up.” He said, like a toast.

Sam smiled at him, and they clinked their glasses together. He didn’t often drink hard liquor, and never scotch, so he braced himself as he took a sip. The amber liquid was surprisingly smooth, and it left a lingering sweetness in his mouth. He glanced into the tumbler in surprise.

“This is not terrible.” He said, conversationally.

Dave laughed lightly, swirling his scotch. “High praise, Ambassador.”

Sam rolled his eyes again and took another sip. He knew next to nothing about spirits, but it tasted delicate and left a pleasant warmth in his belly, so he supposed he approved.

“Alright, what’s the plan?” He asked, motioning towards the coffee table.

“The plan is to have a couple of drinks, watch some television, and then put this to bed.” Dave said.

“Sounds good, let’s do it.” Sam said, tossing back the remainder of his drink. Dave watched him, his expression equal parts amused and aghast.

“This is an _eighteen year old scotch_.” He said, emphasizing every word. When Sam stared back at him blankly, Dave rolled his eyes. “Lennox and Epps have been a bad influence on you.”

Sam grinned at him unrepentantly, “Lennox can shoot hard liquor like a goddamn Viking.”

“Yeah, that’s my point exactly.” Dave replied dryly, but he swallowed the remainder of his scotch all the same. He pushed himself to his feet a moment later and accepted Sam’s glass, before ambling into the kitchenette. As he poured them another drink, Sam thought that the set of his shoulders seemed less tense. The thought warmed him as surely as the alcohol. When Dave returned, he handed Sam his glass and then retrieved the remote from the side table.

“Any preferences?” He asked, sitting down.

“Dealer’s choice.” Sam replied.

Dave made a thoughtful sound, and navigated through the DVR menu to the NFL network. They sat in companionable silence as the hosts of the Red Zone speculated about the upcoming season. Sam sipped at his drink, glancing occasionally in Dave’s direction. The older man was leaning back against the cushions, his arm propped against the arm of the couch. He seemed to be enjoying the commentary, but there was no hiding the paleness of his skin or the tired lines of his face. It left Sam feeling strangely unmoored to know that Dave was so _human_. He seemed infallible.

When they finished their second drink, Sam stood up and extended his hand for Dave’s tumbler. The older man handed it over without token protest.

“I take mine neat, but there’s ice in the fridge if you’d prefer.” He said, almost as an afterthought.

Sam had never had a drink on the rocks before, and the thought amused him. He set the glasses on the counter, and opened the refrigerator. He was unsurprised to find an assortment of fresh produce and sparkling water staring back at him. Sam glanced over his shoulder towards the couch.

“Even your fridge has a Type A personality.” He observed with a grin, “I’m going to start calling you Chris Trager.”

Dave looked in his direction, his expression equally amused and exasperated, “I don’t know what that means, but I’m choosing to interpret it as a compliment.”

Sam laughed as he shut the refrigerator, “Oh yeah, you’re totally a Trager.”

He fixed them both a drink—Dave’s neat, and Sam’s on ice—and then ambled back towards the couch. Carter accepted the tumbler with murmured thanks as Sam sat back down. The two hosts on the screen were talking animatedly about draft picks. Sam perked up as they mentioned the 49ers, and took another drink of scotch. No sooner had the chilled alcohol touched his tongue than did a swell of _anxiety_ - _uncertainty_ flood his mind. Sam inhaled sharply in surprise, and immediately choked on the drink. He started coughing, the scotch burning his throat and nose. Dave glanced over at him, his eyebrows furrowing in concern.

“You alright?”

Sam sucked in a harsh breath, and then another, as the feeling of _anxiety_ worsened. Unable to reply to Dave, he nodded in confirmation, and then turned his attention inwards. He immediately recognized First Aid’s mental presence. The medic was close, and he radiated a complicated mixture of worry and consternation. Incredulously, Sam pushed an inquiry at him with more vim than strictly necessary.

_// **?** //_

He felt First Aid rear back in surprise as his mental presence disappeared.

 _//Mind your volume.//_ Ratchet admonished sharply a moment later.

Sam took another drink to clear his throat. When he realized that Dave was still watching him, he gestured vaguely but meaningfully to the side of his head. Comprehension and amusement crossed Dave’s face in quick succession.

 _//What was that all about?//_ Sam asked.

_//Your blood alcohol content is 0.10.//_

Sam frowned faintly. He had a bit of a buzz, but he wasn’t drunk.

_//And your point is…?//_

Ratchet’s disapproval washed across their bond, and Sam grimaced in response. He glanced reflexively down at his drink. The ice cube clinked gently against the glass, and coolness leached pleasantly into the palms of his hands. 

_//They find it unsettling.//_ Ratchet replied. The way he spoke suggested that his words were self-evident. Sam frowned faintly.

_//Who finds what unsettling why?//_

He felt Ratchet’s brief confusion, and then a swell of _exasperation_.

 _//It is remarkably difficult to follow your train of thought at times.//_ Ratchet replied dryly. At the same time, Dave leaned forward and asked, “Are you alright?”

Sam glanced at the older man. Dave’s brow was furrowed with concern, and Sam winced at him.

“Sorry, it’s hard to pay attention to everything all at once. Just give me a second.” Sam replied apologetically. Dave settled back against the couch, his drink in one hand and an intrigued expression on his face. With a concerted effort, Sam turned his attention back towards the Creator bond.

_//I’m busy Ratchet. Can you give me the cliff notes version?//_

Sam felt a strange _twist_ that he was certain was the mental equivalent of an eye-roll.

 _//You are our ward, a sparkling, and a Prime.//_ Ratchet explained with exaggerated patience, _//They object to your decision to willingly poison yourself as a form of social bonding.//_

The medic’s words left Sam reeling—he felt guilty and offended, all at once. He glanced back down at his glass, a frown turning down the corners of his mouth.

 _//Well you can tell them to get over it.//_ He replied with more bite than he intended, _//I’m an adult, I’ll do as I please.//_

Ratchet’s disapproval sharpened, causing Sam to brace himself, but the medic didn’t follow-up with one of his mental _raps_. Instead, his mental presence became a strange mixture of reproach and regret.

 _//You aren’t firewalling.//_ He replied simply, _//I don’t have to tell them anything.//_

Sam’s head jerked back as the implications of Ratchet’s words became clear: the medic didn’t have to share Sam’s message, because their conversation was being monitored. Sam made a strangled noise of incoherent anger, slamming his firewalls back into place with every ounce of his mental strength.

Dave’s eyebrows jumped up in surprise, but Sam barely registered his presence.

 _//What, is everyone just eavesdropping on me now?//_ Sam demanded, scathingly. 

To Sam’s surprise, Ratchet’s presence did not swell with _disapproval_ or _irritation_. Instead, the medic seemed to consider him for a long moment. Bumblebee’s presence was there as well, at the edge of his mind, but the scout’s presence was far less reserved. 

_//Well?//_ Sam demanded.

 _//They are not eavesdropping.//_ Ratchet replied at last, _//They’re monitoring an unsecured channel.//_

Sam’s fury grew to colossal dimensions. He finished the last of his drink in a single swallow, enjoying the swell of vindictive pleasure he felt at the action. Carter was looking at him with something like confusion on his face, but the older man extended his hand towards him all the same. Sam passed over the empty glass without prompting, and Carter headed towards the kitchenette.

_//My head is not a fucking timeshare, Ratchet!//_

Sam could feel the medic’s exasperation, but his voice was imminently patient when he replied.

_//I realize that, but you must understand that your thoughts and feelings are no longer private. Not unless you make them private.//_

Sam accepted the tumbler from Dave, gripping the glass with both hands until his knuckles turned white. He felt like he was standing on shifting sand, and he had no idea how to deal with it.

_//How about they respect my privacy instead? I’m going through a lot of shit right now, and I don’t feel like nursing a migraine every waking minute while I’m at it!//_

Then Bumblebee’s presence was there, placating and reassuring. Sam _twisted_ away from the gentle touch, in no mood to be mollified. The scout was undeterred, and the winter-white glow followed him. Sam huffed harshly through his nose as Bumblebee pressed against him.

 _//Sam, please try to understand.//_ Bumblebee murmured, _//You’re broadcasting on an unsecured channel—we would monitor you as a matter of course. That you are a newspark only heightens the instinct to observe you, to ensure that all is well.//_

“I swear to God.” Sam managed through clenched teeth, “I’m a fully grown, cognizant fucking adult.”

Dave took another drink of his scotch, his features arranged in a carefully neutral expression. All at once, Sam remembered why he was sitting in his living room in the first place. He felt a hot swell of shame, and squeezed his eyes shut. 

_//This isn’t over.//_ He promised coldly, before drawing away as far as the bonds would allow. He was aware of Bumblebee’s contrition and Ratchet’s consideration, but the sensations were distant and muted. Sam exhaled through pursed lips, and took another drink. When he felt reasonably composed, he turned to look at the other man.

“I’m sorry Dave, that was rude. What’d I miss?” He asked with forced levity, gesturing towards the television.

Dave tipped his head to the side, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I was going to ask you the same thing.” He replied, serious and sympathetic, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face and muttered, “I honestly don’t know where I’d even start.”

“That wasn’t a no.” Dave observed.

Sam angled his head to look at the other man. Dave was leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees and his half-empty drink held loosely in his hands. His expression was open and sincere. A wry smile twisted Sam’s mouth, but it was entirely without humor.

“I’m supposed to be helping _you_.” Sam reminded him.

A grin stretched across Dave’s face.

“You’re here as a distraction. So go on, distract me.”

Sam laughed as he took another sip of his drink. By now he felt pleasantly warm in that full-bodied way he had come to associate with a decent buzz. The thought caused a twist of vicious satisfaction in his chest.

“What do you want to know?” Sam asked, surprising himself.

“Whatever you want to tell me.”

Sam considered the words for a long moment, before leaning back against the couch. He stared down into his glass as he swirled the scotch around.

“What have you been told again? I can’t keep track of who knows what.” 

Dave obliged him by providing a competent summary of what he knew. It included the Allspark energy regenerating in Sam’s body, Sam’s on-lining and Creator bond, his access to the neural-network, and his revival of Jazz. Sam listened to him in silence, his head canted to the side. When Dave finished speaking, Sam made a vague gesture with his hand.

“Yeah, that about sums it up.” He confirmed.

“So what was that all about?” Dave asked curiously.

All at once, Sam realized that he _wanted_ to tell Dave. He wanted to unburden himself with someone who was not an Autobot or his therapist. It was a liberating—and terrifying—feeling.

“It’s an ongoing argument.” Sam murmured, “Ratchet wants me to practice my firewalling, but I don’t like it. It would be a hell of a lot easier if he’d just keep me inside the Creator bond.”

Dave seemed to consider his words before speaking.

“So why doesn’t he?”

“It takes decades before defensive protocols can be transferred to newsparks. Ratchet and Optimus agreed that I should practice manually firewalling in the case of an attack.”

“That sounds… reasonable.” Dave replied carefully.

“Sure it does.” Sam agreed bitterly, “But as it turns out, when I’m not actively firewalling, which is most of the time, the others have been… eavesdropping.”

“Eavesdropping?” Dave asked.

Sam waggled his fingers near his temple, “Listening to what I’m thinking, feeling what I’m feeling.”

Dave’s eyes widened slightly before his expression became sympathetic.

“I can see why the Creator bond is appealing for you. I can’t imagine how invasive that would be.”

Sam took a deeper drink of his scotch and shrugged, “The Creator bond isn’t completely private. I still have Ratchet and Bumblebee in my head, but it’s leagues better than the alternative.”

Dave’s brow furrowed slightly. “Bumblebee’s in the Creator bond too?”

Sam experienced a moment of confusion before realization hit him like a ton of bricks. His knee-jerk reaction was unadulterated panic. He tried desperately to think of how to walk back his statement, to misdirect, to deflect. Then it occurred to him, all at once, like missing a step at the bottom of the stairs, that he didn’t care whether Carter knew about his relationship with Bumblebee. The moment of clarity was shocking in its intensity. 

He watched Carter closely, taking in his microexpressions and body language as he spoke. 

“Bumblebee and I are spark bonded.”

“I see.” Carter replied slowly, although it was clear that he didn’t, “Is that like a Creator bond?”

Sam couldn’t prevent the quirk of his lips, although it wasn’t really funny. He recalled Bumblebee’s explanation all those years ago, and he parroted it back as well as he could remember.

“No, not exactly. It’s a mental connection, yeah, but the spark bond is more… intimate.”

Dave stared at him blankly before realization slowly dawned, as unmistakable as a sunrise.

“Oh… _oh._ I see.”

In the background, the newscasters droned on about projections and over-under odds, but it was a periphery annoyance. Barely noticeable. Sam’s eyes roved over Carter’s face, looking for any sign of disgust or fear, but he saw nothing. There was surprise, and compassion, and a little awkwardness, judging by the color in his cheeks, but the older man didn’t flinch or look away from him.

Something ugly inside of him unclenched, and Sam found himself smiling broadly in return.

“Yeah, welcome to the party, pal.”

The corners of Carter’s mouth turned up, before he asked, hesitantly, “Can I ask… how’d that happen?”

Sam blew out a breath, settling back against the couch as he took another drink.

“It was a spontaneous connection, it happens when two sparks are compatible with one another. It started to develop after Egypt, but it fully realized after I was on-lined.”

Carter seemed to digest this, his head tilted to the side and his expression thoughtful. After a moment, he shook his head and laughed ruefully.

“I don’t know whether to be surprised they kept this a secret for so long, or disappointed in myself for missing what was right in front of my face. I’m usually more observant than this.”

Sam laughed quietly to himself, relaxing further into the couch.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. The other Autobots reacted the same way when they found out. Spark bonds are rare.”

“Do Will or Epps know?” Carter asked. The innocuous question caused Sam to stiffen in response. He tried to affect an air of indifference, but he could tell by the way Carter’s gaze had sharpened that he wasn’t successful.

“No one else knows. Just you and Karen.”

Carter’s eyebrows twitched up in surprise. He looked as though he was about to comment on that, and then he visibly caught himself. Rather than speculate or ask questions, he just nodded.

“Thank-you for taking me into your confidence, Sam. I won’t abuse your trust.”

Carter’s solemnity warmed Sam, but it also caused him to throw back his head and laugh.

“Yeah, thanks Optimus. I appreciate it.”

Sam’s reply startled a bark of laughter from the other man. Carter finished the rest his drink, which he had been nursing the entire time Sam had been arguing with Ratchet. He seemed to consider his empty glass for a moment before he said, with complete sincerity, “I hadn’t intended on getting drunk, but that’s what’s happening. Please don’t feel pressured to drink if you don’t want to.”

Sam glanced into his own glass, which was almost empty. This was what, his third? He’d been sitting on Carter’s couch for almost two hours now, and he was well on his way to getting properly drunk. A slow smile spread across his face, as he glanced back at the older man.

“I’ve been reliably informed that humans drink as a form of social bonding.” He replied, and he couldn’t deny the amusement he felt at Ratchet’s sharp exasperation, “So let’s bond.”

As it turned out, Dave Carter could handle his alcohol. They took turns refilling their drinks as they navigated through different channels. First they watched ESPN, then HGTV, and then an episode of the Simpsons recorded on the DVR. By the time that midnight rolled around, Carter got up to find them something to eat. When he returned with a bag of nachos and a jar of salsa, Sam groaned in appreciation. They took turns scooping the chopped vegetables onto their chips as the television droned in the background. Shortly thereafter, Carter handed Sam a tall glass of ice water. As he had firmly transitioned from buzzed to drunk, Sam accepted it with murmured thanks.

It was almost one o’clock in the morning when Carter’s mouth firmed into a thin line. The older man shifted forward onto the couch, and picked up the funeral arrangements form. He stared at it with narrowed eyes, as though it had personally offended him. After a moment, he glanced in Sam’s direction.

“This is some next-level bullshit.”

Sam was surprised to hear the other man swear. Carter never used foul language, not in all the time that Sam had known him. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees.

“I’m sure it is, but why exactly?”

“I wanted Killian to be buried at the Massachusetts National Cemetery, but they’re being pricks about it.”

“What, why?”

Carter made an irritated sound.

“Burial in a National Cemetery has a lot of stipulations attached to it. They’re being prickly about whether he’s eligible.”

Sam frowned deeply. He knew a little bit about the requirements for military burial, but he wasn’t an expert. He stared down at the form in Carter’s hands.

“Kilian spent twelve years in the armed forces. What’s the problem?”

“He was born in Boston, but he was a member of NEST at the time of his death. Only American citizens can be buried in National Cemeteries.” 

Sam’s frown deepened.

“He wasn’t an American citizen?” He asked. Sam thought that he had been the only one to give up his citizenship.

“Technically, his citizenship was paused at the time of his death. It was a made a requirement for NEST membership when Diego Garcia became its own nation-state.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” Sam replied. 

“Quite right. The United States and France are the only ones being obstructionist about it.”

“Typical.” Sam muttered.

“Typical.” Carter agreed, darkly.

Sam stared at the forms for a moment longer, and then he was seized with sincere conviction.

“You know what? Fuck them and the horse they rode in on. Killian should be buried in Boston.”

Dave frowned faintly, as though he were about to disagree, when Sam leaned forward earnestly.

“No seriously, think about it. He was a Southie, through and through. He loved the Marines, but he lived for Boston.”

The disagreement in Dave’s face softened, becoming contemplative.

“He never shut-up about Fenway or Fort Independence.” He said slowly.

Sam grinned at him.

“He bought a PC just so he could play Fallout 4.”

“And then complain about it.” Carter replied ruefully, but he was smiling.

“Yeah, exactly. Killian should go home. He’d want that, I think.” 

Dave looked down at the papers in his hands for a long while. Sam watched a myriad of emotions cross his face, too quickly to decipher, before something eased in his demeanor.

“Thank-you, Sam.” Carter said softly, “Really.”

“Hey, no problem. I can be useful, occasionally.”

Carter shot him a wry look, before tearing the form he was holding in half.

“I’ll need to make arrangements to buy a plot. It won’t be cheap, but he had savings. I can get it sorted tomorrow.”

“Sounds like a plan. What about the rest of it?” Sam asked, motioning to the forms scattered over the coffee table.

“The rest is straightforward. Name, date of birth, date of death, social. That sort of thing.”

Sam reached for the nearest form, giving it a cursory glance.

“Alright, I can look at the forms you’ve already completed to find anything I don’t know.”

“Sam, it’s one o’clock in the morning and you’re drunk.” Carter said dryly, “We should both go to bed.”

Sam pinned him with a serious look, “I’m sobering up, and I already told you, I’m not leaving until this is finished. Hand me a pen.”

Carter stared at him for a long moment, and then he shrugged.

“Fine, here.” He tossed Sam the pen that sat beside him, “If you mess anything up, there’re blank duplicates in that file folder.” 

Sam filled out form after form with the same information. He did not make any mistakes. Carter worked beside him, his brow furrowed in concentration. Occasionally, one of them would get up to refill their waters or, when two o’clock rolled around, to get a cup of coffee. Most of the paperwork was straightforward, if macabre. There were forms for transfer of the body and cremation, an application for veteran benefits, and a form for the Social Security Administration. When he finished those, Carter handed Sam the obituary that he had drawn up earlier in the day. Sam read it over with a lump in his throat. It was tasteful and well written, and he handed it back with a nod.

It was just after two-thirty in the morning when Carter tidied the paperwork and tucked it back inside the folder. He stood up, making his way over to the desk on the opposite side of the room. When he passed Sam, he patted him on the shoulder.

“You can crash here, if you want. We can get some breakfast in the morning.”

Sam stared blearily at the clock on the wall. It was a short walk back to his apartment, but he was exhausted and the couch seemed inviting at that moment.

“Yeah, alright.” He agreed, voice hoarse with lack of sleep.

Carter nodded at him, tossing the file on the desk. He disappeared into the bedroom, only to reappear a moment later with a pillow and blanket. The blanket was the same as the spare in Sam’s own closet, and if he had had any doubts as to who prepared his apartment prior to his arrival, they were firmly dispelled.

“You know where the bathroom is. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen.”

“Sure, thanks.” Sam said, accepting the bundle of bedding. Carter stood there a moment, staring down at him.

“You’re a good friend, Sam.”

Sam tossed the pillow on the couch, and pulled his sweater off over his head.

“Back at you, Dave.” He said absently.

Carter nodded at him and then made his way into the bedroom, turning lights off as he went. A moment later, he shut the bedroom door behind him, and then Sam was alone. It was dark, except for a wan light coming from the kitchen. Sam shimmied out of his jeans, leaving him in boxers and a t-shirt, and curled up on the couch. He was so exhausted that he didn’t even mind the feeling of leather pressing against his skin.

He drifted for a while, warm and comfortable, before surrendering to the inexorable pull of sleep.

* * *

**EARLIER**

Ratchet frowned faintly at the warnings flitting across his primary visual display. Acid Storm lay quiet and motionless on the berth in front of him. Ratchet was jacked into the Seeker’s primary medical port as he ran his diagnostics.

 _“What is it?”_ Thundercracker asked quietly. The Seeker lay on the berth nearest his faction-mate, red optics guarded but concerned.

_“Shockwave’s attack melted his stabilizing gyro and accentuater. The damage is causing a cascade of failures in his secondary fuel supply.”_

The concern in Thundercracker’s face noticeably deepened.

_“Can you fix him?”_

_“Certainly. The question is whether I can do so before he offlines from energon loss.”_

Thundercracker stiffened, but otherwise he did not respond.

 _“He will need surgery as soon as possible. I will have Knock Out assist.”_ Ratchet informed him.

The answering _swell_ of emotion from the Seeker’s electromagnetic fields took the medic by surprise. Thundercracker had remarkable control over his fields, but in that moment, his suspicion and distrust were obvious. Ratchet pinned him with an unimpressed look.

_“Knock Out was your medic for mega-vorns. He is intimately familiar with Seekers in general, and this Seeker in particular. Would you prefer Ambulon?”_

Thundercracker ex-vented softly, his electromagnetic fields retracting close to his frame.

 _“I defer to your medical judgement.”_ He replied stiffly. 

Ratchet snorted loudly, _“That’s fortunate as this is my medical bay.”_

Thundercracker did not respond, and Ratchet did not prod him any further. Although the Seeker was the least irritating of his contemporaries, he was still a Decepticon. Ratchet had no interest in engaging him any more than necessary to complete his repairs.

As Ratchet made the arrangements for Acid Storm’s surgery, his attention drifted towards the silver-white glow at the edge of his processors. It was just after midnight local time, and the continually looping sub-routine he had established earlier that evening informed him that Sam’s blood alcohol content had risen to 0.14. He felt a swell of exasperation, and he composed a text message to Carter instructing him to get Sam some water. He knew that the intervention wouldn’t be well received if it came from him directly.

A moment later, Carter texted him an affirmative.

After he finished his diagnostics and confirmed that Acid Storm was stable, Ratchet disconnected his medical cable from the Seeker’s port. He scanned Thundercracker next; the other Seeker was stable enough that a hardline was unnecessary. Satisfied with the cascade of low-priority reports that he received, Ratchet stepped away from the berths. As he made his way over to the floor-to-ceiling cabinets against the far wall, his attention turned back towards Sam. His mental presence was restless, and it took only a cursory effort to identify the source of his emotions—he was discussing funeral arrangements with Carter. Ratchet felt a pang of sympathy for the boy. He had arranged more than his fair share of memorials.

Ratchet spent the better part of a cycle arranging the equipment and supplies necessary for Acid Storm’s surgery. When Knock Out strode into the hangar, fastidiously ignoring Thundercracker’s presence, Ratchet ordered him to prepare an emergency energon line. The field medic nodded at him once in understanding, and then moved to carry out his orders. With luck, they wouldn’t need it, but Ratchet did not believe in luck. He believed in being prepared for every contingency.

Shortly thereafter, his attention was drawn back to Sam by a swell of _contentment_. Ratchet pressed deeper into their bond, and was met with a soothing thrum of _comfort-warmth_ that made his spark ache with fondness. Sam’s shields had fallen apart sometime over the last cycle, but the boy was too near sleep to have noticed. The thought caused Ratchet to ex-vent a soft sigh. He was well aware that the others monitored Sam’s spark signature. It was a reflex, like pressing fingertips into a pulse point, nothing untoward or unusual about it. They took comfort in being able to confirm his wellbeing, and many of them enjoyed vicariously experiencing the world through Sam. They found his physiology both mystifying and delightful. 

Yet despite this, Ratchet understood it was something lost in translation between their two species. There was very little in the way of privacy between mechanoids, especially mechanoids from the same faction and caste. This was not the case for humans, who valued their privacy and autonomy. Ratchet knew that Sam would have to adjust to his changing circumstances, but he did not know how to help him. Relegating Sam to the confines of the Creator bond was out of the question. It would be both unethical and irresponsible to prevent him from learning how to navigate the neural-network. Ratchet supposed that he could ask Prime to order the others to respect Sam’s privacy, but that was only a patchwork solution. It would provide him comfort while they were on Diego Garcia, but it would not help Sam gain control over his mental faculties, nor would it help prepare him for their inevitable return to Cybertron. The Decepticons, Thetacons, and Neutrals would take advantage of a lapse in his defenses in an instant. Sam needed to learn not only to shield his mind, but also to control his errant thoughts. As Ratchet shut the large cabinets, he decided to seek counsel from Optimus. Although his Prime did not share a Creator bond with Sam, he cared deeply about their ward. Ratchet was confident that together they could determine the best way forward.

At the thought, Ratchet turned his attention back to the luminescent glow resting within their bond. Sam had slipped into a light sleep, and his signature was soft and mellow. Ratchet regarded him for a moment longer, and then he tucked the silvery glow close to his spark. This closely intertwined, Ratchet could distantly feel the gentle rise and fall of Sam’s chest, could hear the steady beat of his heart. He told himself that the proximity was necessary to ensure his quick intervention in the event of a night terror or sonumbualism. 

If, by coincidence, the gentle thrum of _contentment_ served to soothe away the stresses of his day, well, Ratchet supposed that was alright too.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note** : Thanks for the continued support. It's very much appreciated. Also, in case you're curious, this is what the cabin of an [H2 Hummer Rescue Vehicle](http://evsh1.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/T1-10.jpg) looks like.

Sam woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of a dishwasher on its rinse cycle. He squinted open his eyes in momentary confusion, taking in his surroundings, before memories of the previous night came back to him. He groaned softly, burrowing his face into the pillow. Now that he was awake, he could make out the sound of Carter moving around the kitchenette. The agent was humming cheerfully to himself as he worked.

“What time is it?” Sam rasped.

“Oh, you’re finally up.” Carter said, good-natured humor in his voice, “You can sleep through anything. It’s almost eight.”

“ _In the morning?”_ Sam asked, incredulously. They had been awake until after three o’clock the night before. Carter chuckled sympathetically, which was all the answer that Sam needed. He rolled onto his back, scrubbing a hand over his face, “You’re a masochist.”

“Nope, just a morning person.”

“Is there a difference?” Sam replied dryly. Carter was already dressed for the day in a dark suit and Autobot-blue tie. He was fresh-faced and neatly groomed, evidentially just out of the shower. Sam reached down with one hand, fishing blindly for his clothes. When he found them, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, blankets tangling around his bare legs. He did a quick inventory of himself, surprised to find that, although his mouth was tacky and dry, he was otherwise none of the worse for wear.

 _Excellent_. He thought, pulling his shirt over his head, _Thank-you Allspark._

“Do you want a coffee?” Dave asked over his shoulder. As he spoke, he grasped the handle of the coffee pot and poured the steaming liquid into his travel mug.

“No thanks, I’ll get something at the mess.” Sam replied, pushing away the blankets and standing up. He pulled on his jeans, and then turned to regard the used linens, “Do you want me to fold these or do you want to wash them?”

Carter glanced over at him again, following Sam’s line of sight. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of it when I get home tonight.” 

A lifetime of good manners drilled into him by his mother had Sam folding the blankets anyway, leaving them in a tidy pile on the couch. He retrieved the glass that he had used last night, bringing it over to the sink. He glanced sidelong at the agent as he passed him.

“You look like you slept well.”

Dave crooked a smile at him, “I did. Thanks for coming over on such short notice.”

Sam set the glass in the washbasin, before turning around and leaning against the counter.

“No worries, I was happy to do it.” He said, nodding towards the half-empty bottle of scotch, “You can keep the rest for next time.”

Dave laughed quietly as he raised the travel mug to his lips, “I’ll do that.”

Sam huffed quietly at the confirmation that there would be a next time. The thought warmed him to his core.

“What time do you need to be in the office?”

“I’m meeting with Miller at oh-nine-hundred to go over the House Intelligence Committee’s after-action report.” He replied, pulling his phone out of pocket to glance at the display. Satisfied by whatever he saw he tucked the phone back into his pocket, and glanced at Sam, “Do you want to go to the mess now? Or would you prefer to go back to your apartment and change?”

“We can go now.” Sam replied, pushing away from the counter, “I’ll change after I catch a few more hours of sleep.”

Carter nodded, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and together they made their way over to the entryway. Sam toed on his sneakers, while Dave crouched to pull on his expensive-looking loafers. When he was finished, the older man straightened up, gathered the folder with Killian’s paperwork, and tucked it into his briefcase. Then, he pulled open his front door, standing aside so that Sam could step through. Carter followed after him, shutting the door behind them.

They fell into step, side-by-side, as they made their way to the mess. Carter’s apartment was located nearer the cafeteria, while Sam’s apartment was located nearer the North Quad entrance. As a result, they walked into the busy hangar only a few minutes later. The large room was loud with the clamor of people talking and laughing, the clink of dishware, and the clatter of people working in the kitchens. As Sam picked up a tray from the stack at the end of the galley, he heard someone call out his name. He glanced up in surprise only to see Lieutenant Novo walking towards them. The other man was smiling broadly, dressed in tan-green desert camo. He wore a dark beret, bashed to the right and donned with NEST insignia. The sight of it made Sam’s eyebrows rise to his hairline.

“Morning Luis.” Sam greeted him good-naturedly, “Nice hat. I guess that means you made the cut?”

Novo grinned at him unabashedly in return. “Yeah I did, just found out last night.”

“Hey, congrats.” Sam replied. Carter’s gaze flitted curiously between Sam and Luis as he followed their conversation. Remembering his failure to introduce Dave to Mearing the day before, Sam gestured meaningful between the two men. “Dave, Luis Novo. Luis, this is Dave Carter. Luis was a member of the newest batch of recruits under Lennox and Epps. Carter is Optimus Prime’s go-to guy.”

They two of them exchanged a friendly handshake, and then, noticing the large gap between them and the next person in line, they began to make their way down the galley. Sam went first, followed by Novo, and then Carter.

“Congratulations on your acceptance to NEST.” Carter said as they waited in line. 

“Thanks. There were a lot of long days, but it was worth it.” Novo replied. 

They stopped briefly at the refrigerated beverage dispenser in order for Sam to fill up a medium-sized orange juice. The disposable cup was made of recycled plant materials that could be thrown in the compost rather than the trash. Beachcomber had been insistent that the base cut down on single-use plastics.

“So, how do you two know each other?” Carter asked, glancing between them.

“It’s kind of a funny story, actually.” Sam said as he looked through the selection of breakfast sandwiches. When he saw the last bacon and egger, he snatched it up and put it on his tray, “I cost him push-up detail, and then I dumped coffee all over him.”

Luis chuckled, shaking his head. “Is that the story you’re going with? I’ve been telling anyone who’ll listen that the Ambassador threw coffee in my face for getting between him and his lunch.”

Sam grinned over his shoulder at him, “And I’ll do it again, if you need another lesson.”

“No, I’m all good.” He replied wryly, “My legs are still sore from the PTs I had to do when Williams saw the state of my uniform.”

Sam stopped in his tracks, the smile sliding off his face. He turned to regard the other man, consternation furrowing his brow. “Wait, are you serious?”

Luis seemed to falter, as though he were taken aback by Sam’s reaction. He recovered quickly, waving his hand nonchalantly, “It’s not a big deal. We do PTs every day, rain or shine or coffee stains.”

“You should have told someone.” Sam insisted, a frown turning down the corners of his mouth, “I would have said something to Lennox if I’d known it would be a problem.”

“Snitches get stiches, Ambassador.” Luis said dryly, “I’m no nark.”

Luis leaned across the galley to accept his bagel from the station attendant. Sam stared at him for a moment longer, trying to decide whether he was being stoic or sincere. When Luis noticed his gaze, the look he directed at Sam was decidedly exasperated.

“Would it make you feel better if I threw coffee on you too?”

Sam huffed a laugh, shaking his head at the sincerity in Luis’ tone. “Fine, but I owe you one.”

Luis’ expression became wry as he put a fruit parfait on his tray, “Well then, I’ll take an accommodation in the officer’s section at your earliest convenience, thanks. The barracks are too crowded for my tastes.”

“You’re shit out of luck.” Sam replied with a laugh, “I have nothing to do with accommodations. Hell, Carter here has a nicer apartment than I do.”

“It’s a perk of the job.” Carter replied dryly, watching their banter with an amused expression, “And as a matter of fact, Ironhide wanted you in the barracks. Thank your lucky stars that Prime refused him.”

The mention of the two Autobots suddenly reminded Sam of his argument with Ratchet. He grimaced deeply at the memory. Sam didn’t think of himself as an overly private person, but there were some things he didn’t want to share with just anyone—his innermost thoughts and fears chief among them. Sam narrowed his eyes slightly in concentration as he gathered up his firewalls. When they _snapped_ into place a moment later, like closing a door, he felt a mingled sense of relief and vexation.

Sam was pulled out of his brooding by a polite cough. He turned his head and noticed that Novo, Carter, and a number of people in line behind them were staring in his direction. He frowned in confusion for a scant moment, and then Carter flicked his eyes meaningfully over Sam’s shoulder. Sam turned, following his gaze, to find a sizable gap between him and the next person in line. Warmth flooded his cheeks and he murmured an apology, before pushing his tray the rest of the way down the galley. Carter and Novo followed behind him, and then they walked to the cash registers. Carter sipped his coffee as he walked, seemingly deep in thought. As they paid for their meals, Sam asked whether Novo had time to join them for breakfast. The other man seemed pleasantly surprised by the invitation, which he readily accepted. They ate in companionable silence, speaking only to ask for salt or napkins, or to ask about duty assignments. It was sociable in a way that Sam hadn’t experienced in a long time. 

After they finished eating, the three of them parted ways. Dave and Luis headed in the direction of the bridge, while Sam made his way back to his apartment. His mind drifted as he walked, inevitably pulled towards the winter-white glow resting at the edge of his mind. Sam smiled to himself, leaning towards Bumblebee’s familiar presence. As soon as they touched, Sam was met with a swell of _welcome_ from the scout.

_//I’m going back to bed. What’re you doing?//_

As soon as he asked, Sam couldn’t help but groan inwardly. In terms of pick-up lines, that had been a solid D minus. He felt Bumblebee’s amusement, before the scout brushed against him in apology.

_//Cliff and I are heading out on patrol in ten. Raincheck?//_

_//Not that I’m keeping score_ \--// He was. _//--but I’m pretty sure you already owe me a raincheck.//_

Bumblebee’s amusement deepened, taking on an _edge_.

 _//I’ll make it up to you.//_ The scout promised. His mental voice had gone low and indecent, and the sound of it caused Sam to shiver in anticipation.

 _//Yeah, okay. Sounds good. I’ll see you later, then.//_ He managed to reply. 

Bumblebee’s mental presence warmed with affection. He brushed across Sam’s mind in farewell, and then he was pulling away. Sam let him go without complaint.

By the time that Sam arrived at his apartment a short while later, he was thankful for the raincheck. With less than five hours of sleep the night before, he was already bleary-eyed and yawning. As soon as the door closed behind him, Sam was pulling off his clothes. He left a trail of dirty laundry all the way to the bedroom, where he collapsed on his bed with a contented sound. He laid there for a long moment, relishing the smell and feel of familiar bedding, before he climbed beneath the covers. He curled up on his side, wrapping his arms around one pillow and nuzzling his face into the other. It was dark and quiet and cool in his bedroom, and the combination was an effective soporific. He was asleep before his alarm clock rolled over to 9:00 AM.

* * *

Sam was pulled out of his slumber sometime later by an impatient sigh. He didn’t even need to open his eyes to know who was standing at the foot of his bed.

“Go away, Ratchet. I’m not talking to you right now.” He grumbled.

“The evidence would suggest otherwise. Get up.”

Sam felt a swell of irritation at the medic’s bossy tone. In response, he grabbed a pillow and pulled it over his head. _“Go. Away.”_

Ratchet scoffed loudly, and then the blankets were being yanked off the bed. Sam sat up in a flash, opening his mouth to deliver a blistering protest, when a bundle of clothing caught him square in the face. Sam _oofed_ in surprise and caught the clothing with both hands. He stared down at the slacks and thin, cable-knit sweater before turning a quizzical look towards the holoform.

“What’s this for?” 

“Prime has called an impromptu meeting to discuss the House Intelligence Committee’s after-action report. Your presence has been requested.”

Sam sighed softly, his irritation with Ratchet forgotten. He glanced over at the alarm clock—it read 10:58 AM in blocky red font. He looked back towards Ratchet before asking, resignedly, “When?”

“Half-past the hour.”

Sam couldn’t hide the grimace that twisted his lips. He felt grubby from spending the night on Carter’s couch, and he hadn’t brushed his teeth yet that morning. Ratchet sighed heavily, a put-upon sound if ever Sam had heard one.

“You will have time to shower, if you hurry.” He said pointedly. When Sam didn’t move, the holoform tipped his head insistently towards the bathroom, “Go.”

Ratchet’s tone brooked no argument, and Sam didn’t even bother trying. Instead, he scooted across the mattress with his bundle of clothing in one arm, and then made his way into the bathroom. He pushed the door closed with his hip, and dropped the clothing on the counter. He took care of his immediate needs first, using the toilet and brushing his teeth, before stepping into the shower. He scrubbed himself as quickly as he was able, making a mental note to buy more body wash, before shutting off the water.

When Sam opened the bathroom door scant moments later, fully dressed and good to go, Ratchet was still standing in his bedroom. He stared at the medic in surprise. 

“Uh, do you need something?”

The grizzled-looking holoform rolled his eyes, an impressively human mannerism.

“I’m accompanying you to the command center. Are you ready?”

Sam was taken aback by the medic’s words. He could count the number of times that Ratchet had accompanied him anywhere outside the medical bay on one hand—and still have a finger or two left over. The thought caused a ribbon of anxiety to unfurl in his stomach, and he turned his attention towards the spark bond. To his relief, Bumblebee’s presence glowed at him from a distance. If Sam concentrated, he could pick up impressions of _drudgery_ and _impatience._

Ratchet harrumphed from where he stood near the entrance to the bedroom.

“Your bonded is fine, he is returning from patrol.” He interjected, “Are you ready to go?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. Let me get my bag.”

Sam sidled past the holoform, making his way over to the tall, narrow stand by the door. He opened the messenger bag, confirmed that his notebook and pens were present, and then slung it over his shoulder. He toed on his shoes, shoved his identification badge and cell phone into his bag, and then turned to look at the holoform expectantly.

“Okay, all good.”

Ratchet stared at him for a long moment, before crossing the room towards the table-turned-impromptu-kitchenette near his desk. The holoform pulled a bottle of water and half a leftover sandwich out of the bar fridge, before extending the items towards Sam.

“The meeting could run long.”

Sam accepted them with murmured thanks, and then Ratchet was striding towards the door. Sam tucked the items into his bag and hurried after him. The holoform walked purposefully, shoulders squared and eyes straight ahead. The few people that they passed nodded respectfully, but otherwise gave them a wide berth. The realization caused Sam to glance sidelong at him in curiosity. The holoform was dressed as he always was, in military fatigues with the medical corps emblem stitched above his breast. His hair was shot through with gray, which was thicker at his temples, and crow’s feet lined the corners of his eyes. The combined effect gave Ratchet a stern countenance—he looked like a man who gave commands and expected to be obeyed.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Ratchet honest-to-God _chuckled_.

“Is that so?” He asked amusedly, “You’d never know it judging by the miscreants that find their way into my medical bay. I spend more time ensuring they follow my instructions than treating them, it seems.”

Sam couldn’t prevent his huff of surprised laughter.

“I’m pretty sure I should be offended.” He said dryly.

“You have tested my patience in the past, it’s true.” Ratchet acknowledged, “But I’ve never been tempted to beat you with a wrench.”

Sam turned his head to regard the medic in disbelief, “Are you serious?”

Ratchet hummed noncommittally, but his expression was warm with amusement. Sam rolled his eyes and pushed his hands into his pockets. The remainder of their walk to the bridge was spent in comfortable silence. When Sam stepped through the large red doors a short while later, he was greeted by the familiar sight of an H2 rescue vehicle. As he approached the chartreuse Hummer, the driver’s side door opened on his behalf. Sam didn’t hesitate before grabbing the handgrip and climbing into the cabin. The door snapped shut behind him as soon as he settled into the driver’s seat.

Sam had only been in Ratchet’s cabin a handful of times in the past. The seats were upholstered in dark leather, and they were creamy and smooth to the touch. There was a complicated amalgam of gauges and dials spread out in front of him, and there were two separate CB radios affixed to the dashboard to his right. All and all, Ratchet’s front seat was crowded. As his curious gaze roved over the cab, the seatbelt snaked across Sam’s chest. A moment later, the engine turned over the Ratchet accelerated through the bridge. Sam grasped the seatbelt, adjusting it to rest more comfortably against his shoulder. Bumblebee never asked him to use the seatbelt so long as they were still on base. Ratchet, however, did not subscribe to that philosophy. 

Sam stared out the window as they drove, his mind wandering. It was not long before his attention turned back towards the neural-network. He was gratified to realize that his firewalls were still in place, but the sight of them caused a flare of irritation. Sam mulled over their argument the previous night in silence all the way to West Quad. As they trundled through the large doors, however, Sam found himself blurting out, “Can’t you just keep me in the Creator bond?”

“No.”

Sam’s irritation ramped up by an order of magnitude. “Why not?”

“Because I said so.”

“You also said I wouldn’t be outside the bond for more than an hour or two at a time.” Sam snapped, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, “What’s the problem?”

“I told you that over two years ago.” Ratchet reminded him curtly, “You’ve developed a great deal since then. You can maintain a firewall for up to six hours now. I am confident that you could go even longer, if the situation required it.”

“I’m not a mechanoid, Ratchet. I can’t just write a program to keep my firewalls in place indefinitely. It’s _embarrassing._ ”

There was no need for Sam to elaborate on what, exactly, he found embarrassing. He knew that the medic could remember the pretext of their argument from twelve hours ago.

“Despite what you might believe, I’m not unsympathetic to your plight. However, our situation has changed a great deal over the last deca-cycle. I no longer have the luxury of coddling you.”

“Is _that_ what you call it?” Sam asked sarcastically. He fully expected the medic to reply in kind, and when he was met with silence, it drew him up short. Sam shifted in his seat before asking, hesitantly, “Ratch?”

The silence stretched on for a moment longer, before a sigh gusted through the cabin.

“I might not always be able to protect you, but I will do what I can to prepare you.”

The medic’s words were uncharacteristically solemn, and his tone cut through Sam like the blade of a knife.

“What’s wrong, Ratch?” He asked anxiously, loosely grasping the steering wheel with both hands. Sam’s words seemed to snap the medic out of his strange mood, for when he replied, it was with his usual air of gruffness.

“There’s nothing wrong, Sam. We can talk more on this later.” 

Before Sam could argue back, Ratchet pulled to a stop. Sam glanced through the windshield, and was surprised to find that they had arrived at the command center. At the same time, the seatbelt retracted across his body and the driver’s side door popped open.

“Out you get.” 

Sam gathered up his messenger bag, and climbed out of the cabin. He stepped backwards several paces, and Ratchet transformed into his bipedal mode. Once his transformation was complete, the medic straightened to his full height, before nodding towards the scaffold.

“Go on, it’s almost time.”

Sam nodded slowly, before turning and making his way up the stairs. As he climbed the metal steps, he watched Ratchet assume his customary spot next to Ironhide. The weapon’s specialist greeted him with a rumble of Cybertronian. Ratchet nodded at him, but otherwise did not reply. Sam watched them for a moment longer, and then Ironhide turned his head and caught Sam’s gaze. The look on the old mechanoid’s face was almost expectant. Sam stared back at him in confusion, before he had a moment of sudden clarity.

With an eye-roll of epic proportions, Sam _pinged_ the weapon’s specialist.

_//The barracks, Hide? Really?//_

A swell of dry amusement was his only response.

Sam huffed a quiet laugh, and strolled towards the conference table set halfway down the gantry. Carter, Lennox, Mearing, Miller, and Fowler were already seated, and they were talking in low tones with one another. There were papers spread all over the table in front of them, and one of them seemed to be the focus of their discussion. Mearing glanced up as he approached.

“Good morning, Sam.”

At her welcome, the others at the table turned to regard him.

“Morning.” Sam replied, sliding into the remaining seat beside Fowler, “I hope you slept well.”

“I did, thank-you. Your people have been very accommodating.”

Sam was surprised by the way that her words warmed him, and he smiled genuinely in response.

“I’m glad to hear it. Have you had a chance to tour the base?”

Mearing shook her head, “We worked late last night, and were back at it early this morning.”

“You should make the time. The island is beautiful.”

Mearing’s expression became contemplative, almost thoughtful. “Perhaps so.”

The meeting began shortly thereafter, once the remainder of the senior officers and staff arrived. Sam listened attentively as Optimus introduced Director Mearing and Agent Miller, and together the two women outlined the after-action report from the House Intelligence Committee. Although Sam did not particularly care for Mearing, he could not deny the way she commanded a room. When she spoke, it made even the most grizzled commander sit up and pay attention. Sam tapped the end of his pen against his notebook as his listened to their presentation. It was highly technical and filled with acronyms that Sam couldn’t begin to puzzle out. He jotted down things that he didn’t understand, making a note to ask about them later. After Mearing finished speaking, she opened the floor for questions. The ensuing back-and-forth was even more difficult to understand. Bumblebee and Cliffjumper arrived halfway through the Q&A. Sam smiled at them as the scouts moved to stand against the far wall. All of the spots around the table had been taken.

Despite his best efforts, Sam found himself losing interest by the half-hour mark. He rummaged around in his bag, pulling out the half-sandwich and bottle of water. By the time that he finished eating, Mearing had surrendered the floor to an unknown man in military dress. The stranger began talking about the open source intelligence that Spec Ops had gathered regarding MECH’s possible next steps. Mearing listened attentively, jotting down detailed notes as he spoke. Sam tried to follow along, but he was lost by the time the officer started in on something called Maltego. He could tell that the content of his talk was important, judging by the expressions of those seated at his table, but Sam only understood about half of what he heard.

It was not long before Sam’s attention began to wander. He sat with his chin propped up in his hand, only half-listening to the next speaker. Eventually, his mind turned towards the neural-network. The vast expanse _thrummed_ with the proximity of so many mechanoids. Sam stretched out, slipping past their signatures one by one. Not wanting to be a distraction, given the purpose of the meeting, Sam tried to keep to himself. When one of the glowing nodes shifted as he passed, Sam quickly flitted aside, avoiding contact. When it happened a second time, and then a third, Sam began to make a game of it. He could tell by Bumblebee’s amusement and Ratchet’s exasperation that his antics weren’t completely unnoticed, but neither mechanoid scolded him.

Sam entertained himself for the better part of twenty minutes, slipping deftly between the glowing nodes. When he made to pass Jazz’s signature, however, the second-in-command moved to block his path. Sam pulled up short, staring at the indigo-blue spark in surprise. After a moment, Sam shifted to the side, intending to go around him, and once again, Jazz moved to intercept. Sam lifted his head, glancing uncertainly towards the second-in-command. Jazz was standing at Optimus’ side, arms folded loosely over his chest. When they made eye contact, the second-in-command quirked a smile at him. All of a sudden, Sam understood: Jazz was being playful.

With a grin spreading across his face, Sam turned his attention back towards the neural-net. He considered the indigo-colored glow in front of him, and then slipped to the side. Jazz followed him, so closely that they almost touched. Sam maintained the distance between them, feinting in one direction before heading in another. Jazz followed, fast on his heels. Try though he might, Sam couldn’t shake the second-in-command. He slipped and twisted, moving as deftly as he was able, but Jazz was never far behind. They had been at it for less than a minute, when Sam felt a sudden swell of _fury._ He jerked back in confusion, before he realized that the emotion had come from Ratchet.

Sam glanced down at the medic, and was taken aback by the tension in his frame. Ratchet was glaring openly at Jazz, who returned his gaze without flinching. They stared at each other in silence for a long moment, and then Jazz lifted a pauldron in a haphazard shrug. Ratchet’s optics narrowed into azure slits, and he hissed something vitriolic-sounding at the second-in-command. Optimus stopped speaking in mid-sentence, turning to regard Ratchet in surprise. Jazz angled his helm to look up at Optimus, _chirruping_ at him quietly. Understanding spread across the Autobot leader’s face, and he regarded each of his secondary commanders in turn.

“This is neither the time nor the place. We will discuss the matter later.”

“No we won’t.” Ratchet replied tersely.

Optimus directed a dignified and quelling look at the medic. Ratchet fell silent under that gaze, but the anger was still plain on his face. Ironhide leaned towards him, rumbling something quietly in Cybertronian. Ratchet glanced at him, and shook his helm minutely. Sam watched the bizarre scene unfold in abject confusion. It seemed that Ratchet was angry that he and Jazz had been goofing around, but Sam couldn’t figure out why. The medic hadn’t been angry when Sam was messing around by himself. Knowing full well that he wasn’t about to get an explanation from Ratchet, Sam _reached_ for Bumblebee. The scout’s presence was in his mind in an instant. 

_//What the hell was that all about?//_ Sam asked, leaning forward until he could see Bumblebee where he stood against the far wall.

 _//I’m not sure.//_ Bumblebee replied, _//Whatever it is, they’ll work it out.//_

Despite his pestering, Sam couldn’t get any more information from the scout. Eventually, he gave up and sat back in his chair with a huff. The meeting continued on as though the outburst had never happened. Fowler provided an update about the embassy retrofits, and then Ultra Magnus provided a report about personnel misconduct that managed to catch Sam’s attention. He learned that the City Commander had written up a dozen reprimands over the last week for issues that included public intoxication, assault, battery, and theft. For some reason this information took Sam completely by surprise. He never would have imagined that NEST had any disciplinary issues, let alone ones that were so mundane. Shortly thereafter, the meeting was called to an end. Sam stretched in his chair—they had been sitting for over two hours, and he was stiff as hell.

As he was gathering up his things, Fowler leaned towards him.

“Did you have the chance to look through that docket I gave you?”

Sam glanced up at him as he pushed his notepad into his bag, “Yeah I did, thanks. They look good.”

“No issues crop up?”

“None that I could see, though most of what I read went completely over my head.”

Fowler’s lips quirked up in amusement, “I hear you. I have trouble keeping all of the titles and accolades and commendations straight myself. If you have no objections, I’ll have them transferred to Jasper tonight. They’ll be ready to greet you on Friday morning.”

“Sounds good, thanks Bill.”

The older man nodded, before turning to gather up the papers in front of him. Sam made his way down the gantry, stepping around technicians and computer terminals as he walked. When he got to the stairs, he saw that Bumblebee was already waiting for him. A smile spread across his face at the sight of the yellow Camaro, and Sam took the steps two at a time.

“How was patrol?” He asked, as soon as he stepped down onto the floor.

“It went well.” Bumblebee replied, opening the driver’s side door, “Sand has drifted over the road in south-central, but otherwise all clear.”

Sam climbed into the cab with a groan of relief. As soon as the door shut behind him, Sam pulled the messenger bag off his shoulder and dropped it in the passenger seat. At the same time, Bumblebee accelerated slowly out of the hangar, mindful of the people milling around the entrance.

“That was _so boring_.” Sam complained, his head falling back against the seat, “How can Optimus do this all day?”

Bumblebee’s amusement washed over his mind like a warm tide. “There’s good reason why Ratchet left the Senate to become a surgeon.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Sam said, before glancing towards the dash, “What’re you up to this afternoon?”

Bumblebee’s mental presence shifted, becoming edged with a sort of hungry anticipation. Sam sat up straighter in his seat, suddenly wide awake.

“This afternoon, I’ll be fulfilling a promise I made you. Several times.” Bumblebee replied, his voice a low rumble that made goosebumps spread over Sam’s arms, “And I’m not going to be gentle about it.”

Sam groaned softly, his words sending a kick of heat straight through him. He had to swallow twice, his mouth suddenly dry, before he could manage to reply, “I very much look forward to it.” 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note** : So this happened. Once I started writing, I couldn't stop. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> **Chapter Warnings** : Graphic sexual content, including penetrative sex, mild D/s themes, and exhibitionism (if you squint). Honestly, it's 5k words of porn. RIP my soul.

Bumblebee never spoke another word to him. The Camaro made its way through West Quad, slowing occasionally to allow pedestrian traffic to move aside. When they crossed onto the bridge, he accelerated to thirty-five miles per hour, causing the industrial lights to flash by overhead. Sam’s heart drummed a steady rhythm beneath his breastbone, spurred equally by arousal and anticipation. By the time that Bumblebee pulled to a stop in front of the North Quad entrance, Sam was thankful for his messenger bag. His dick was already half-hard.

With a fortifying breath, Sam pushed open the door and climbed out of the cabin. To his surprise, Bumblebee’s holoform didn’t materialize in front of them. He turned to look expectantly at the Camaro, but his only response was the door snapping shut behind him. The change in routine caused a thrill to race through him—evidentially, Bumblebee was keen to add an element of mystery to whatever was about to happen. Sam slid his hand over the sleek yellow bonnet as he stepped away.

“See you soon.” He murmured.

The throaty purr of Bumblebee’s engine followed him through the North Quad entrance. Sam walked quickly, stepping around a cluster of support staff who were chatting idly with one another. By the time he arrived at his apartment a short while later, he was out of breath. He took a moment to collect himself and straighten his clothes, before pressing his identification badge against the reader set into the wall. The locking mechanism disengaged with an electronic _click_ , and then Sam pulled open the door.

Bumblebee’s holoform stood in the middle of the living room, his expression inscrutable but intense. Sam stepped into the apartment, closing the door behind him. The holoform’s pale blue eyes slowly raked down Sam’s body, before flicking up to meet his gaze.

“Eager, were you?” He asked, low and throaty, and Sam shivered in response. Bumblebee’s expression sharpened, becoming knowing. He strolled forward, one step at a time, until he was in Sam’s personal space, then he walked Sam backwards until his back collided with the door, “What’s to be done about that?”

“I have a few ideas.” Sam replied, breathlessly.

Bumblebee’s lips curled in a smile, “I bet you do.”

The holoform brought his hands up to cup the sides of Sam’s face, thumbs gently stroking across his cheekbones. Then he leaned down, capturing Sam’s mouth in a kiss. It was a sweet press, soft lips and the hint of tongue. Sam drank it down, hungry for more.

Bumblebee pulled away slightly, his expression openly fond.

“Hands behind your back.”

Sam’s eyes widened slightly at the command in his voice. Bumblebee had given him directives before, but they were usually posed as a suggestion. Something to be followed, or not, depending on Sam’s preferences. This, by contrast, had been an order—and that went straight to Sam’s dick.

He swallowed dryly as he put his hands behind him, clasping them in the small of his back. Bumblebee hummed at him approvingly, before ducking down to lightly suck at the sensitive spot below Sam’s ear. Sam made a strangled sound in response, tipping his head to the side to give the holoform better access. Bumblebee tormented him for a moment longer, and then raised his head until his lips brushed against the shell of Sam’s ear. 

“Your hands stay there until I tell you otherwise.” He murmured. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, giving a jerky nod of his head in response. Bumblebee pressed a kiss against Sam’s jaw, “Good boy.”

“Jesus Christ, Bumblebee.” Sam managed faintly.

The holoform chuckled, low and indecent, and then he stepped away. Sam’s eyes snapped open, only to see the holoform folding onto his knees in front of him. He watched as though in a trance as Bumblebee unfastened his fly, pulling the denim down just far enough to free Sam’s cock. He was already hard and needy, which, judging by the smirk on Bumblebee’s face, the holoform knew full well. He stared considerately at Sam’s cock for a moment, before taking him in hand. He pumped him several times, and then drew the pad of his thumb over his slit, smearing the precum that had beaded there around the head of Sam’s cock.

“If I do anything to make you uncomfortable, I will know and I will stop.” Bumblebee murmured, angling his head to look up at him, “Do you understand?”

Sam blinked down at him, nodding faintly. “Yeah, I understand.” 

Bumblebee’s face warmed with a smile, “Thank-you.”

Without waiting for a reply, the holoform leaned down and took Sam’s cock in his mouth. He swirled the glans with his tongue, lightly pumping his length. Sam’s breath left him in an explosive rush, his head falling back to thunk against the door. Unlike many of the other times that Bumblebee had gone down on him, the holoform did not seem interested in drawing it out. He bobbed against him, all wet heat and suction. One hand stroked his cock in tandem with his mouth, while the other gently fondled his balls. The combination proved to be brutally effective. It wasn’t long before Sam was gasping, rocking his hips in desperation. When Bumblebee took him all the way down to the root, Sam moaned raggedly.

Bumblebee pulled off, glancing up at him as he admonished, “Quiet. Someone might hear you.”

Sam screwed his eyes closed. The knowledge that he was pressed against his front door, possibly a short distance away from God only knows who, hit him unexpectedly hard. He bit his lower lip, swallowing the groan that tried to force its way out of his throat.

Bumblebee took him in his mouth again, hollowing his cheeks as he bobbed on Sam’s cock. Sam was breathing raggedly now, edging ever closer to orgasm with every stroke. When Bumblebee pressed the knuckle of one finger firmly into his perineum, rubbing in tight little circles, Sam came with a soundless cry. He shuddered through his orgasm, Bumblebee swallowing around him. When the last of his tremors had subsided, the holoform pulled back until just the head of Sam’s cock was in his mouth. He suckled at the glans until Sam whimpered, overstimulated, and then he let him go. 

Sam stood there, shoulders curled forward and panting, leaning his full weight against the door. Bumblebee watched him catch his breath with an enigmatic look on his face. When Sam managed to lift his head, meeting the holoform’s gaze, Bumblebee smiled at him.

“That’s the last time you come today without permission.” 

Sam’s breath hitched in his throat. He knew that he had a submissive streak, but he never could have imagined the way those words affected him. If the holoform’s expression was anything to go by, however, Bumblebee knew exactly what he was doing. The holoform chuckled, pushing himself to his feet and taking Sam’s face in his hands.

“You can let go now.” He murmured, pressing a gentle kiss against the corner of Sam’s mouth.

It was only then that Sam realized his hands were still fisted behind his back. He released his grip, bringing his hands around to rub the pins and needles out of them. Bumblebee watched him with an amused glint in his eyes.

“That was…” Sam blew out a breath, “That was amazing.”

“I’m glad you approve.” Bumblebee replied, before stepping away and tipping his head towards the bedroom, “Now take off your clothes and get on the bed.” When Sam stared back at him incredulously, Bumblebee smirked, “You were the one keeping score. I’m just settling my tab.”

Sam groaned softly, but it wasn’t in protest.

“There’s no way I can get off again.”

“We have the rest of the afternoon.” Bumblebee assured him, like a promise, “Now strip.” 

Sam obliged him, reaching down to grasp the hem of his shirt. He pulled it over his head in one fell motion, and dropped it on the floor. His pants were already undone, his dick still hanging out of his fly. He kicked off his shoes, sliding both his jeans and boxers over his hips, before pulling them off entirely. Bumblebee watched him the entire time, his gaze sliding over Sam’s body like a caress. When Sam was finally naked, he strode passed the holoform into the bedroom. To his surprise, the bed was neatly made and the clothes that he had left on the floor that morning were gone.

“Lay on your stomach in the center of the bed. I will be in shortly.” Bumblebee instructed him. The tone of his voice caused Sam’s dick to twitch with interest. He huffed in dry amusement—this might not take that long after all—before crawling onto the bed. Sam settled on his stomach, his arms pillowed beneath his head. The room was comfortably warm, another telling change, as Sam kept his apartment on the cool side. As he mulled this over, he could hear Bumblebee moving around the living room. There was a rustling noise, then the sound of his fridge being opened and closed, and then a _clinking_ sound.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked without looking up.

“Never mind.” Bumblebee replied, “Are you comfortable?”

“Yeah, thanks. Why’d you make the bed?” 

“I didn’t want to stain the sheets.” Bumblebee replied pragmatically, before making his way into the bedroom. The holoform seemed to be staying out of his line of sight, and Sam let him. He closed his eyes, resting his head on his forearms again. A moment later, the mattress dipped as Bumblebee climbed up beside him.

“Here, drink.” The holoform urged him gently. Sam turned his head to see that Bumblebee was holding a bottle of water. He accepted it from him, cracking it open with a twist of his wrist. The water was cool and refreshing, and Sam drank his full. When he finished, he handed the bottle back to him. Bumblebee leaned over, placing it on the bedside table, and then he moved to straddle Sam’s thighs.

“You told me yesterday that I could hijack your endocrine system whenever I wanted.” Bumblebee murmured, and then there was the sound of a bottle cap being opened, “I’m going to take you up on your invitation.”

Sam huffed a quiet laugh, “Isn’t that what we just did?”

“That was just to take the edge off.” Bumblebee replied, as oil-slick hands settled on Sam’s shoulders, “We’re going to be here a while.”

Sam groaned as Bumblebee rubbed his thumbs into his trapezius muscle. The holoform took his time, alternating between firm pressure and light, occasionally drawing his fingernails over Sam’s skin. He stroked his hands across Sam’s back, following the curve of his deltoid with skilled fingers. Sam wouldn’t have thought it was possible to get any more relaxed, but he was very much mistaken. Bumblebee worked with precision, kneading and rubbing with a practiced air that suggested he had done his research.

Sam’s eyes drifted closed under his ministrations. Occasionally, Bumblebee’s touch would deepen until it was just this side of painful, then it would gentle, becoming feather-light. The combination of deep pressure, soothing touch, and the scratch of nails against his skin had Sam floating on a cloud before long. Bumblebee steadily worked his way down Sam’s back, stopping every now and then to smooth his hands all the way up to his shoulders and back down again. When he got to Sam’s waist, Bumblebee’s hands disappeared, coming back a moment later slicked with more oil. He rubbed the heel of his palm into the small of Sam’s back in firm circles, eliciting a drawn-out groan.

“Roll over.” Bumblebee murmured. 

Sam complied, feeling boneless and loose-limbed. Bumblebee’s hands rose to his shoulders as he continued the massage. His touch was firm, stroking over Sam’s chest and leaving the barest trace of oil on his skin. A moment later, Sam was pulled out of the comfortable fog in which he’d been drifting when Bumblebee ghosted over a nipple. He glanced down, watching the holoform’s fingers trace a circle around the sensitive flesh.

“Do you remember what I told you, the last time we were intimate?” Bumblebee asked. He tone was one of pleasant inquiry, as though he were asking Sam about his day.

Sam swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “Yeah.”

“And what was that?” Bumblebee prompted, rolling the pebbling flesh between his fingers.

“You wanted me to tell you about my fantasies.”

“That’s right, I did.” Bumblebee agreed, and then he pinched Sam’s nipple between forefinger and thumb with enough pressure that he yelped in surprise, “I suppose we should preface that with a discussion about what you’ve already done.”

His fingers gentled again, the pad of his thumb soothing away the sting of the pinch. It took a second for Sam’s brain to catch up with the program, “What?”

Bumblebee’s expression was amused. “What have you experimented with in the past? Either with Mikaela or by yourself.”

Sam stared up at him in disbelief, “You seriously want to talk about my sex life with Mikaela? _Now_?”

“I do, yes.” Bumblebee agreed.

“You have the worst timing in the history of ever.” Sam groused, head falling back against the mattress. Bumblebee laughed quietly as he leaned down, taking Sam’s nipple into his mouth. As he laved at the sensitive flesh with his tongue, Sam huffed a breath between pursed lips. “We did the usual stuff, I guess. Nothing too kinky. She went down on me, I tried my best to return the favor. There were handjobs, some dirty talk, and sex.”

“What positions?” Bumblebee asked, perfectly serious.

Sam was surprised to find that he wasn’t embarrassed by the question, but he was decidedly exasperated. “Missionary, mostly. She rode me a couple of times, and we tried doggy once.”

Bumblebee nodded, seemingly taking in his words.

“Is there anything else?”

“No, not really.” Sam replied, before amending himself, “Well, she liked teasing me.”

Bumblebee’s lips twitched, as though he were trying to suppress a smile. Before Sam could call him out on it, however, the scout ducked down to press open-mouthed kisses across his chest. Sam’s breath hitched as Bumblebee’s hands settled over his hips, thumbs rubbing little circles into his sensitive flesh. Sam’s dick gave another twitch, and Bumblebee rewarded him by sucking a vivid red mark in the skin below his belly button. Sam groaned softly as Bumblebee continued to trail wet kisses across his pelvis. He drew out the foreplay, paying attention to every one of Sam’s erogenous zones above his waist. By the time that he began kissing down the trail of fine, dark hair, Sam’s cock had taken a firm interest in the proceedings. It lay half-hard between them, thickening as Bumblebee mouthed towards his groin. Sam was breathing harder now, his hands grasping at the bedclothes.

“Well?” Bumblebee asked, simulated breath warm against Sam’s dick.

Sam lifted his head, staring down at the holoform in confusion. “Huh?”

“Tell me about your fantasies.”

“Oh.” Sam replied unintelligibly. Bumblebee stared at him patiently, before ducking down to nuzzle against the base of Sam’s cock. The resulting thrill of pleasure caused Sam to whimper, a high-pitched, needy noise.

“Go on then.”

“I don’t know what you’re expecting, I’m pretty vanilla.” Sam managed, thrusting up in an effort to get some friction against his now-aching dick. Bumblebee’s hands settled over his hips, pinning him down onto the mattress. Then he took one hand away, and a moment later, he drew the tip of his finger down the underside of Sam’s cock. Sam shuddered at the sensation, before asking, “Are you going to get me off anytime this century?”

“You know what I want.”

Sam groaned, his cheeks warming with embarrassment. “It’s the little stuff. The way you take charge, hold me down. Tease me. I liked it when you ordered me around earlier.”

“Is that so?” Bumblebee asked, rewarding Sam by grasping the base of his cock and swirling the glans with his tongue. Sam moaned, desperate for it, but Bumblebee didn’t give him any more, “What else?”

“I want to fool around in your cab.” Sam managed through gritted teeth, “I’ve thought about you going down on me in the backseat. Like, a lot.”

Sam could feel the way his words affected Bumblebee, whose mental presence had become edged with an _intensity_ that he understood all too well.

“What else?”

“That’s it, really.”

“You know I know that’s not true.” Bumblebee admonished, genuine amusement in his voice.

“Christ, Bumblebee. Are you going to make me spell it out?”

“You invoke the name of your deity a lot, you know.”

Sam tried to lift his hips again, and was unsurprised (and pleased) when Bumblebee didn’t let him. “You have that effect on me.”

Bumblebee chuckled, “Fair point.”

Sam took a deep breath, and then another, as he considered the answer to his question. He knew full well that Bumblebee could feel his embarrassment, his nervousness, his desire. Eventually he steeled himself, before lifting his head and looking down at him.

“I want to have sex with you.”

Bumblebee began to stroke him, slowly, from root to crown. His grip was firm and slick and _perfect_ , and Sam’s head fell back against the mattress.

“I know you do. Have you thought about specifics?”

Sam shook his head, squirming, “No, I mean I want to have sex with you right now.” Bumblebee’s grip didn’t falter, but Sam could feel his surprise.

“That’s a big decision. Are you certain?”

Sam panted, rucking the blanket up in his hands. He was painfully hard now, aroused not only by what Bumblebee was doing to him, but also at the prospect of more. “I’m pretty fucking certain.”

Bumblebee’s expression was difficult to decipher, but Sam could feel the complicated swell of his emotions. There was affection and earnestness and concern and arousal, all mixed up together. Sam lifted his hips, thrusting into Bumblebee’s grip. He supposed it was a testament to his bonded’s distraction that he let him. 

“I already told you that I’d have you in any way I can.” Bumblebee murmured softly, and there was something vulnerable in his tone, “If you’re sure.”

Sam pushed up onto his elbows, beckoning towards him, “C’mere.”

Bumblebee let go of Sam’s erection, and crawled up beside him. Sam cupped the side of his face with one hand, and leaned up to kiss him. It was a sensual caress, gentle and intimate. When Sam pulled away, he caught Bumblebee’s gaze.

“I’m sure.” He said, firmly, before flashing a cheeky grin, “Besides, you already promised to make all my fantasies come true.”

“I suppose I did.” Bumblebee replied, a smile in his voice, “How do you want to do it?”

Sam shrugged, settling back against the mattress, “You’re the one with a compendium of human sexuality in his head. You’d know better than I would.”

Bumblebee looked at him considerately for a long moment, and then he nodded.

“On your back, then. I want to be able to see you.”

Sam held his breath as Bumblebee moved between his legs again. His erection had flagged during their conversation, but it hardened again as soon as Bumblebee took him in hand. The holoform stroked him with intent, his grip firm and sure. It wasn’t long until Sam was squirming, rocking his hips with every stroke. Bumblebee let him, watching Sam’s face the entire time. When he felt that familiar heat curling tighter in his groin, Sam opened his mouth to tell Bumblebee that he was getting close. Before he could even get the words out, Bumblebee released him.

Sam made an impatient noise in the back of his throat, “What’re you doing?” 

Bumblebee retrieved a small bottle from his side, popping open the cap. He drizzled some oil onto his palm, rubbing his hands together as he looked up at Sam.

“What did I tell you earlier?” He asked, mildly.

Sam stared at him in confusion, casting his mind back over the afternoon’s events. When he realized what the holoform meant, warmth flooded his cheeks. Bumblebee was staring at him as though he expected an answer, and Sam wet his lips before he managed to reply, “Not without permission.”

“Good boy.” Bumblebee praised, grasping Sam’s cock with one hand. The words, and his tone, sent a kick of heat straight through him, and Sam groaned faintly in response. As Bumblebee began to stroke him again, his oiled fingers stroked the tight entrance to Sam’s body. Sam spread his legs a bit further, panting at the myriad of sensations that were assailing him. When Bumblebee breached him with a finger, Sam couldn’t prevent the whimper that escaped his lips. The holoform thrust in and out, occasionally angling his finger to bump against Sam’s prostate, sending sparks of pleasure through his groin. Then Bumblebee added another finger, pressing in to the second knuckle. The feeling of Bumblebee’s fingers inside him was no longer strange, as it had once been. Instead, it was a fullness that Sam found intensely arousing. 

Bumblebee took his time in preparing him. He thrust into his body, fingers angled to catch his prostate with every push. Every few moments, he would scissor them, stretching him a little further. At the same time, he continued stroking Sam’s cock, palming the weeping slit with every pass. It wasn’t long before Sam was moaning, lifting his hips to meet every stroke, which served to press Bumblebee’s fingers deeper still.

When the holoform let go of his cock a moment later, Sam made a strangled sound in desperation. “Christ, Bumblebee. Please let me come.”

Bumblebee smiled at him affectionately.

“No.”

Sam screwed his eyes shut, simultaneously dismayed and _so fucking turned on_ that it actually hurt. Bumblebee waited until he had backed away from the edge, and then he continued thrusting his fingers into Sam’s body. When he added a third finger, Sam grunted in something other than pleasure. The stretch was more now, just this side of painful. Bumblebee went slowly, adding more lubricant until all three fingers were deep inside him. He rocked his hand, little back and forth motions, as Sam adjusted to the feel of him.

When Sam finally relaxed, Bumblebee leaned down and suckled the head of Sam’s weeping erection. Sam choked on a scream, trying to buck up with his hips. Bumblebee wasn’t having it, however, and the holoform leaned his full weight on Sam’s thighs.

“Oh my God, please do something.” Sam begged, voice wrecked, “Please, Bumblebee, I need—“

“I know what you need.” Bumblebee murmured against the tender flesh of Sam’s inner thigh. He continued thrusting his fingers into Sam’s body, scissoring him open. Bumblebee seemed satisfied with his handiwork, because he began thrusting more quickly, rubbing his fingers over Sam’s prostate with every pass. When Sam felt his orgasm approaching for the third time, he thought maybe, finally, this was it.

“I’m so close, Bee, _please._ ” He pleaded, shamelessly.

“Soon.” Bumblebee promised, letting him go. Sam went limp against the mattress, trying to get his thundering heartbeat under control. A moment later, Bumblebee withdrew his fingers, and settled his hands on Sam’s thighs, “Are you ready?”

Sam glanced down at him, and then his eyes widened in surprise. The holoform was naked, and very much erect. It was only the third time that Sam had seen him without his clothes on—his skin was polished, almost airbrushed in appearance, but otherwise he was indistinguishable from a flesh-and-blood person. Bumblebee was staring at him with a vulnerable look on his face, and Sam smiled at him fondly.

“Yeah, I’m ready. I’ve been ready for years.” Sam murmured, like a promise. He watched as Bumblebee slicked himself up, and then moved forward until he was kneeling between Sam’s legs. His bonded didn’t bother to ask whether he was sure, whether this was what he wanted. He lined himself up, pressing slowly into Sam’s body. The stretch was different than his fingers had been, more intense and impossibly more intimate. Sam held his breath as Bumblebee sank into him, inch by inch. A moment later, the holoform bottomed out, his hips pressing into the meat of Sam’s thighs. Bumblebee’s face was only inches away from Sam’s own, and his expression was wrecked. Sam tangled his fingers in Bumblebee’s hair, pressing little kisses across his nose and cheeks and lips.

“I love you.” Sam murmured.

“Sam.” Bumblebee moaned, one hand coming to grip the side of Sam’s face, “Oh, Primus.”

Sam leaned into the winter-white glow in his mind, activating their bond. He felt a flash of _uncertainty-trepidation_ from Bumblebee, but Sam just pressed in deeper. “Let me in. Please.”

“I can’t— I won’t be able to control my charge, not when we’re so closely connected.”

Sam kissed him, gently.

“So don’t. I want to feel you.”

Bumblebee’s grip tightened against the side of his face, but the scout acquiesced without further protest. Their bond-space was familiar and warm and beautiful, all at once. Sam breathed out, wondrously. He could feel what Bumblebee felt—the tight press of his body, the heat, the flutter of his muscles. He could also sense Bumblebee’s building charge, sharp and urgent, like the tension in the air before a storm. 

“Move.” Sam urged, grinding his hips in a little circle, “Please.”

Bumblebee obliged him. He pulled out until only the head of his cock was sheathed in Sam’s body, and then he pressed back inside. Sam whimpered, his arms wrapping around Bumblebee’s shoulders. Bumblebee went slowly at first, and Sam could tell that it was as much the intensity of sensation he was feeling as it was concern for Sam’s wellbeing. Eventually, Bumblebee grabbed one of the pillows off the bed, and pushed it under Sam’s ass. The pillow changed the angle of Sam’s hips, and the next thrust caught him squarely in the prostate. They both moaned as white-hot pleasure _zinged_ up Sam’s spine and curled in his groin. 

“More.” Sam panted, lifting his hips to meet Bumblebee’s next thrust, “Oh Christ, please.”

Bumblebee rolled his hips in a steady rhythm, thrusting into Sam’s willing body. Sam could feel everything—his own pleasure, hot and urgent, Bumblebee’s building charge, the tightness of his body around Bumblebee’s cock. The latter sensation was strange, translating into pleasure in a way that he couldn’t fathom, but certainly understood. Sam could feel his orgasm building right from his toes. He tightened his arms around Bumblebee’s shoulders, pitching his head forward until his face pressed into the holoform’s neck.

“Please.” He panted against simulated skin, “Please let me come.”

Bumblebee made a ragged sound above him, before dropping one hand to grasp Sam’s cock. He stroked him once, twice, and then Sam was coming so hard that his vision whited out. He felt Bumblebee’s charge release all at once, the current racing through his processors as overload took him. Sam shuddered through their combined pleasure until the last echoes faded away.

When Sam came back to himself, punch-drunk and loose-limbed, he found Bumblebee staring down at him with an intensity of expression that took his breath away. The holoform _chirruped_ something at him in Cybertronian, his voice soft and sincere.

“What does that mean?” Sam asked, drowsily.

“It’s the glyph that I draw, the one that marks you as my beloved.”

Sam smiled up at him, reaching a hand to brush over Bumblebee’s lips. “Say it again.” Bumblebee did, and Sam’s chest ached with affection. “I can’t say it back, but you know it’s how I feel.”

Bumblebee’s expression became openly fond. “I know.”

After that, Bumblebee withdrew from Sam’s body. It was an uncomfortable sensation, but he didn’t have to linger on it. The holoform picked up a facecloth from where it lay at the foot of the bed. He drew the damp linen over Sam’s stomach, wiping away tacky mess that cooled there. When he finished, Bumblebee lay down beside him and drew the blankets over them both. Sam rolled over, curling into Bumblebee’s body. They lay there like that for a long while, letting the world drift around them. Sam could feel himself nodding off, but he struggled to keep his eyes open. He didn’t want this to end.

Bumblebee pressed a kiss against his sweaty curls, “Rest. I’ll be here when you wake.”

Sam’s breath sighed out of him. He let his eyes drift closed, as he tucked his face into the crook of Bumblebee’s neck. “You don’t have anywhere you’re supposed to be?”

Bumblebee’s arms tightened around him. “This is where I’m supposed to be.”

* * *

Ratchet was halfway through recalibrating the energon sieve when he received a ping from Optimus. He grimaced internally, unsurprised to find that the message was a summons. He had been expecting this request from Prime, albeit not so soon. He pinged a wordless acknowledgement in reply, and then set his tools on the workbench in front of him. He turned, glancing in Knock Out’s direction. The red mechanoid was working silently at the next bench, feeding energon into the emergency pumping system.

 _“Prime has requested my presence. Do you require anything before I leave?”_ He asked, direct and to the point.

Knock Out turned to regard him, shaking his helm minutely. _“No, I’ll be finished shortly.”_

 _“I will review your work when I return.”_ Ratchet replied gruffly.

Knock Out turned back towards his task without another word. Grudgingly, Ratchet had to give him credit. Although the former Decepticon was flighty and dramatic, he did not balk at Ratchet’s temper or argue against his orders. Ratchet had also come to find that his work was passably competent, even if his technique left something to be desired.

Without further delay, the medic initiated his transformation sequence. As soon as the last panel slid into place, accelerated out of the medical bay. He was half-way to Prime’s office when Sam’s mental presence dimmed, growing soft and mellow. A cursory glance revealed that the boy was half-asleep and drowsing comfortably. Ratchet snorted to himself—it was little wonder, given the events of the afternoon. He supposed that intercourse was a natural progression in their relationship, owing to the significance that humans assigned the act. Still, he was relieved that Sam seemed none the worse for wear because of it. The human body was at once surprisingly resilient and distressingly fragile. With that thought, Ratchet reinforced the firewalls that he had erected earlier in the afternoon, before turning his attention back to the matter at hand.

Less than half a breem later, Ratchet pulled to a stop outside of Prime’s office. The door was closed, which was unusual for the Autobot leader. He transformed, _pinging_ Optimus the notification of his arrival. The door to his office slid open with a pneumatic hiss, and Ratchet strode inside. He was not surprised to see Jazz leaning against the desk, arms folded over his chassis, but he hadn’t expected Ironhide and Prowl. The weapons specialist and strategist were standing next to Optimus and Jazz, respectively. Ratchet's cool gaze settled on each of them in turn, before he turned to look at their Prime.

 _“I assume there is good reason for you to pull me away from my work.”_ He said by way of greeting.

Optimus inclined his helm, “I am aware of what transpired at the debriefing this morning. I wished to discuss it further.”

Ratchet felt a swell of irritation that his Prime had spoken in English, but he replied in kind.

“There is nothing to discuss.”

“He could use the training, Hatchet.” Jazz spoke up from his spot beside the desk, “The kid’s good.”

Ratchet narrowed his optics at the second-in-command, familiar anger quickening his fuel pump. He knew from the moment he had seen Jazz playing with Sam that the saboteur had been assessing his skills on the neural-network. There was only one reason for him to do so--Jazz wanted to train Sam as an infiltrator. “I will not allow it.”

“Is there a reason for your objection?” Prime asked, neutrally. Ratchet’s gaze flicked in his direction.

“I am surprised you need to ask.” He replied coldly, “You’ve onlined nearly as many mechanoids as I have.”

Jazz rolled his optics expressively, “He’s a newspark by the standards of our species, but an adult by the standards of his own. His physiology is fully mature, I’m not going to damage him.”

Ratchet bristled at the saboteur’s cavalier attitude. He took a step towards him, which caused Ironhide to stand up straighter from where he stood next to their Prime.

“You know that, do you?” Ratchet growled, “I was not aware that you were a xenobiologist.”

“Ratchet.” Prime said gently, “Jazz’s point is valid.”

Ratchet pinned their leader with a glare, “Are you aware of how fragile the human nervous system is? A single burst vessel in his brain would cause an inter-cranial bleed. Depending on where it occurred, he could experience seizures, a stroke, paralysis, impaired cognition—and that’s _if_ he survived.”

Jazz’s mouthplates quirked up in a smile, “Well, it’s not like he wouldn’t bounce back from it.”

“Jazz, your humor is in poor taste.” Prime admonished him sharply.

The second-in-command inclined his helm, accepting the reprimand. “Sorry, boss.”

“The logic of Jazz’s proposal is sound.” Prowl put in matter-of-factly, “Sam has shown both the aptitude and the skill for infiltration. His physiology is mature, which limits the risk of harm, and Jazz has megacycles of experience with training sparklings. It is in the boy’s own interests for Jazz to proceed.”

“Jazz has extensive experience with training, it is true.” Ratchet acknowledged stiffly, “But not with humans and not a newspark. As his Creator and his medic, I won’t allow it.”

“I think Jazz is right.” Ironhide rumbled, catching Ratchet by surprise. The weapons specialist had shared his concerns when they had spoken that morning. The medic had to reset his vocalizer before he could reply.

“Is that so?” He asked icily, “You are even less qualified to give your opinion on this matter than he is.”

Ironhide snorted loudly, pinning him with an unimpressed stare, “You saw Knock Out’s memory files—the kid almost killed Blitzwing with no training and no experience. What happens the next time he gets attacked? He ain’t got any other way to defend himself, and a ‘Con won’t pull their punches.”

Ratchet felt inexplicably betrayed, both by Ironhide’s change of heart and by the logic of his argument. Before he could argue back, Jazz pushed away from the desk. His expression was serious and intent. 

“I’m a soft tackle, when I need to be.” He replied matter-of-factly, “I can train him up as safely as possible. I can’t guarantee there won’t be road bumps, there always are in training, but you’ll be there to monitor him.”

Optimus inclined his helm. “My friend, you asked me for my counsel regarding Sam and our return to Cybertron. It is my belief that we must do all that we can to prepare him, even if that means taking risks.”

Ratchet could not prevent his flinch at the words. Prime’s reassurance was the same one that he had given Sam that very morning. Unable to deny it any longer, the medic ex-vented a resigned sigh.

“As you say, Prime.” He rumbled, his spark tightening with trepidation, “I consent to Jazz's proposal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note** : Some of the intimacy between Bumblebee and Sam was inspired by [Stars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24109816), a story written by long-time commenter LiagibaSiYseehc.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Thank-you so much for all of the support! Signature just hit 400 kudos and Tribulations is almost at 500! You guys are freaking amazing.

The rest of the week passed by in a whirlwind.

On Wednesday afternoon, Sam met with Karen at their scheduled time. Halfway through the appointment, Sam idly mentioned that he had hung out at Carter’s place. Karen’s face lit up with a smile, and she probed him for more detail. He shrugged good-naturedly, telling her about how they bonded over whiskey and draft picks, and how Carter had witnessed his one-sided argument with Ratchet. When he mentioned, almost shyly, that he had told Carter about the spark-bond, her face warmed with obvious approval. That topic led them down the garden path, until, ten minutes before the end of their session, Sam talked about how they had run into Novo the following morning. Karen listened with her head tipped to the side, nodding along as he spoke. When the clock ticked past the one-hour mark, Karen called the session to a close.

As Sam made to stand up, she looked at him and said, with sincere conviction, “You’re making remarkable progress. I’m very proud of you.”

He blushed hotly in response, touched by her words.

Sam spent Wednesday afternoon at his computer desk, cleaning out his Inbox. His e-mail address had been added to half a dozen NEST-related Listservs at the beginning of the semester, and the amount of mail that he received was _staggering_. Thankfully, most of it was intended for a general audience, but there were a fair number of messages addressed specifically to Optimus’ senior personnel. Sam read everything with a voraciousness that surprised him—he learned about duty rosters, deployments, patrols, and more. It made Sam feel connected in a way that he hadn’t before, even though he rarely responded to any of the messages. The first time that he _did_ reply had been nerve-wracking; he read and re-read the short message a dozen times before he mustered up the courage to send it. After the first time, however, replying to the Listserv had quickly become mundane.

After supper on Wednesday evening, Sam was nose-deep into _Chapter 11: Community Economies in Southeast Asia_ when he was interrupted by a sharp knock on his door. He glanced up in surprise, tucking his highlighter into the book and setting it on the coffee table. He was half-way to the door when another knock came, more insistent this time. A frown turned down the corners of his mouth, and a moment later, he pulled open the door. There were two unfamiliar men in Air Force uniforms standing in the hallway.

“Can I help you?” Sam asked, confusion furrowing his brow.

“Good evening, sir. We’re with Acquisitions.”

Sam stared at him blankly, “…Acquisitions?”

The older man, the one who had evidentially knocked on his door, tipped his head meaningfully to the side. Sam followed the gesture to see a four-wheeled dolly loaded with sheets and boxes just outside the door. He stared at it for a long moment before comprehension dawned on him.

“You’re here for the move?” He hazarded a guess.

The older man’s lips twitched as though he were trying to suppress a smile.

“Yes and no, sir. We’ve brought boxes for you, but you’ll need to pack your things. We’ll return tomorrow evening to take everything to the ground bridge hangar.”

Sam stepped aside, letting the two men push the dolly into his apartment. They parked it against the wall under the television. The older man, who introduced himself as Staff Sergeant Griffin, explained that the boxes were for Sam’s things and the sheets were for the furniture. They handed him a packing tape gun and a sharpie, wished him good luck, and then excused themselves. Sam looked from the closing door, to the dolly, and back again before he huffed a disbelieving breath.

He briefly considered returning to his reading, but ultimately decided that he may as well get straight to it. He spent the next twenty minutes cleaning out his closet, neatly folding all but a few things that he left out for the next two days. After that, he was forced to call Dave. The phone rang twice before the agent answered with his usual terse greeting. “Carter.”

“What do I own here?” Sam asked, looking helplessly around the apartment.

There was an audible pause, and then Dave asked, “Come again?”

“I didn’t pay for any of this stuff.” Sam replied, “Well, besides the appliances. What am I supposed to bring with me?”

“Ah, I see.” Carter replied astutely, “Everything in your apartment belongs to you, you should bring whatever you’ll need for the next few months.”

“Everything? What about the bedclothes? The mattress? The shower curtain? Help me out here, Carter.”

Dave laughed lightly, evidentially amused by his exasperation.

“The furniture, the mattress, and the shower curtain are staying. You should pack everything else.”

“Okay, thanks.” Sam replied, before realizing he could hear the low hum of talking over the line. “Where are you?”

“I’m over at the Officer’s Club.” Carter replied, “Miller and I are grabbing something to eat before we finish up with legal.”

Sam’s eyebrows drifted closer to his hairline at the news. Dinner at the Officer’s Club instead of the mess, huh? His mouth turned up in a wry smile. It seemed that Carter wasn’t the only one who had missed something that was right in front of his face. He was happy for Dave—Miller seemed nice enough, and they were both Type A workaholics. Still, he had to do it.

“Officer’s Club, huh? Well, you two kids have fun. Make good choices.” He teased.

Dave snorted and disconnected the call without another word.

Grinning with amusement, Sam opened the music app on his phone and set the songs to shuffle. Then, he turned up the volume and got to work. He cleaned out the bathroom first, leaving only his toiletries and a towel behind. He would pack them with the rest of his clothes on Friday morning. When he was finished, he moved into the living room. He started with the paperbacks and video games. Every time a box was filled, he would tape it off and put it beside the dolly. By the time Bumblebee’s holoform materialized in his living room an interminable time later, there were a dozen boxes stacked neatly against the wall.

“Good evening.” Bumblebee murmured. He crossed the short distance to where Sam sat cross-legged on the floor and carded his fingers through his hair, “You’re making good progress.”

Sam huffed a laugh at him, “If you say so. I didn’t realize I had so much stuff. Can you hand that to me?” He gestured with his chin to the packing tape, which had long since fallen off the gun. Bumblebee obliged him, and Sam pulled out a long strip before tearing it off with his teeth. The holoform visibly winced, taking the tape and sliding it back onto the gun roll.

“Thanks.” Sam said distractedly, smoothing the tape over the flap of the box and sealing it shut. Then he uncapped the sharpie marker with his teeth and scrawled “Office supplies” across the side.

“Are you deliberately trying to wind me up?” Bumblebee asked mildly.

Sam grinned at him as he began folding another box into shape. “No. Not really. How was patrol?”

“It was good. There is some damage to the tarmac on the southern airfield. Prowl put in an order for more Smartseal, but it’ll be a few days before it arrives.” Bumblebee said, dropping into a loose crouch and pulling another long strip of tape off the roll, “Here.”

Sam accepted the tape, smoothing it onto the bottom seam of the box, before turning it over and sitting it on the floor. He picked up a heavy textbook, and fixed Bumblebee with a grin.

“Smartseal, huh? I love it when you talk shop.” His voice dipped into a purr, “Say it again.”

The holoform rolled his eyes and Sam laughed, tucking the book into the box. They finished packing away the rest of Sam’s school supplies, taped off the box, and then put it with the others. When he finished, Sam looked around his apartment with a faint frown. Most of the living room was packed away now, leaving the desk and the side table empty. It made the room feel impersonal and bare, more like a hotel than an apartment. The thought twisted uncomfortably in his belly.

Bumblebee seemed to sense his disquiet, for he pressed against Sam’s back and folded his arms around him. “It’s late. You should get some sleep.”

Sam huffed softly, “I’m too keyed up to go to bed.”

“Oh?” Bumblebee asked, and Sam’s attention was immediately caught by the throaty quality of his voice, “I can probably help you with that.”

Sam’s breath hitched as Bumblebee nuzzled against his neck. “Yeah?” He managed. There was a fleeting impression of _mischievousness_ , and Bumblebee caught his earlobe between his teeth. He tugged the sensitive flesh, before pressing his lips against the shell of Sam’s ear.

“Smartseal.” He murmured, his tone positively indecent, “Tarmac. Checkpoint. _Recon._ ”

Sam choked on a startled laugh. “Oh my god, take me now.”

Bumblebee did, right there on the floor of his living room surrounded by moving boxes. When Sam came back to himself afterwards, half-naked and grinning like a sexed-up idiot, Bumblebee helped him strip out of the rest of his clothes and make it to the bed. He collapsed onto the mattress with a drawn-out groan, snuggling down into the pillows. Bumblebee pulled the blankets over him, before crouching down at his bedside.

“I have sentry until oh-one-hundred. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He murmured, brushing Sam’s short curls away from his forehead.

Sam smiled at him contentedly. “Night Bee.”

“Goodnight, Sam.”

* * *

Sam was half-roused from his sleep by an unfamiliar sound. He squinted open his eyes, staring blearily into the living room. It was dark, and he could just make out the bulky outline of his couch. He listened for a few moments, but his apartment was perfectly still and quiet. With a soft sigh, he let his eyes drift closed. He was almost asleep again when he heard it—a faint, rhythmic buzzing.

He sat up in bed, holding his breath and straining to listen. After a moment, he heard the sound again. Sam’s heartbeat quickened, a strange sense of dread settling over him. He pushed off the blankets, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing up. He made his way across the dark room to the opposite wall, and flicked the light switch. Nothing happened. He flicked it several more times, uselessly.

The sound came again, louder now and more insistent. Sam made his way into the darkened living room, walking slowly with his arms outstretched in front of him. When he stepped around the couch, he paused, canting his head to the side and listening. It was quiet for a long moment, and then the rhythmic buzzing began again. Sam’s head snapped to the side, and he noticed the faint glow of his cell phone on the coffee table. The screen was lit up with an incoming call, and the small device was vibrating across the smooth wood surface.

Sam’s breath rushed out of him in an explosive sigh of relief. He stepped forward and picked up the cell, bringing it to his ear and accepting the call in one fell motion.

“Whoever this is, you almost gave me a heart—“

_“Hello little one.”_

Sam’s words died in his throat, fear and denial slamming into him with the force of a wrecking ball.

“No.” He whispered, disbelievingly.

 _“Yes.”_ Megatron purred, his mental presence _swelling_ with savage satisfaction. It filled Sam’s mind like an inky tide, staining everything it touched.

“No!” Sam shrieked, throwing the phone as hard as he could. It clattered against the wall and fell onto the floor. Megatron’s mental presence sharpened, pressing deeper into his mind. He squeezed his eyes closed, violently shaking his head in denial. He was aware of urgent talking, but he pressed his hands over his ears. “ _Shut up!”_

 _//You do not command me.//_ Megatron rumbled menacingly, _//Perhaps you require another reminder.//_

Hands came down on his shoulders, shaking him sharply. Sam screamed, a guttural, animal sound, lashing out with his fists and kicking with his feet. He distantly heard the sound of shattering glass, and then a weight crushed his body to the mattress. A moment later, painfully bright light flooded the room, blinding him. Sam thrashed beneath the weight that restrained him. He knew that he was begging, pleading between great heaving sobs, but he had no idea what he was saying.

 _“Sam!”_ Ratchet’s sharp voice cut through the fog of his panic, “Sam, look at me!”

Sam blinked open his eyes to find Bumblebee straddling his hips, his hands on his shoulders, pinning him to the mattress. Ratchet was standing over him, grim-faced and concerned. Sam’s gaze flicked desperately between the two holoforms as reality slowly reasserted itself.

_It was just another dream._

“Get off me.” Sam gasped, “Get off!”

Bumblebee didn’t even bother climbing off him—his holoform disappeared, reappearing next to Ratchet at the side of the bed. Sam rolled over, scrambling off the mattress and into the bathroom. He managed to make it to the toilet before he threw up, but it was a near thing. He knelt there for a long time, trembling and soaked in sweat. The remnants of the dream slowly faded away, leaving him feeling embarrassed and ashamed in equal measures.

“Sam?” Bumblebee asked quietly. Sam lifted his tear-streaked face to look at the holoform, who was standing in the doorway, “Do you want me or Ratchet?”

“I’m fine.” He rasped hoarsely, “Just go.”

Ratchet snorted, stepping around Bumblebee into the bathroom. He filled up a tall glass with tap water, and pulled the hand towel off the ring by the sink. He extended both items towards him expectantly. Sam sighed and took the towel with a shaking hand. He drew the soft cotton over his face, wiping away the sweat and tears. When he finished, he dropped the towel in his lap and accepted the glass of water. He sipped slowly, washing away the sour taste of bile.

“You don’t have to stay.” He muttered, unable to look either of them in the eye, “I’m going to be awhile.” Bitter experience had taught him that recovering from the after-effects of a night terror could take hours.

Ratchet lowered into a loose crouch beside him, balancing on the balls of his feet. The holoform’s face was quietly sincere. “Then we’ll stay a while.” 

Sam shook his head, his stomach giving another threatening lurch.

“Ratchet, I don’t want you listening to me puke. I’ll be fine.”

Bumblebee stepped into the bathroom, “It’s alright, Sam. Take all the time you need. After you’ve finished, you can get something to eat and I’ll clean up in here.”

It was too soon and he was too raw—the promise dredged up an ugly memory of the _Nemesis_ , and Sam blinked against the sting of fresh tears. He could feel their answering concern, bright across the bond-space. He laughed bitterly. “Oh no, that’s alright. If I puke, I have to clean it up.”

Megatron had only made him do it twice—both times in the medical bay during his stasis punishment. He could tell the moment that Ratchet and Bumblebee understood his meaning. Bumblebee jerked away, as though Sam had struck him, but Ratchet went very still. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes had hardened to pieces of flint.

The two holoforms stayed with him until his stomach settled. When he was feeling marginally better, he climbed into the shower and washed away the sweat and tears and bile. Then he sat on his ass, letting the water drum down over his back. He had no idea for how long he stayed there, but when the warm stream began to cool, Bumblebee turned off the faucet and helped him out of the shower. Sam grumbled when the holoform dried him off, but Bumblebee would not be deterred.

It was almost six o’clock in the morning by the time he was dried, dressed, and reasonably composed. Ratchet handed him his shoes, and briskly instructed him to get something to eat. The medic looked briefly conflicted, as though he wanted to say something more, but then he nodded his head and disappeared. Sam smiled faintly—he understood well enough. 

Together, Sam and Bumblebee made their way to the mess hall. Sam was quiet as they walked, and Bumblebee didn’t attempt to draw him into conversation. The mess hall was mostly empty, except for a few dozen personnel in varying states of dress. Sam steadfastly avoided eye contact as he queued at the back of the line. The freshly baked breakfast foods did nothing to tempt his appetite. Eventually, he forced himself to choose a bagel and a banana, and when Bumblebee placed a cup of peach yogurt on his tray, Sam accepted it without complaint.

After he paid for his meal, Sam made his way to a quiet corner of the cafeteria. They sat at an empty table, far removed from the nearest people. Sam ate mechanically, barely tasting his food. He was halfway through the yogurt when Bumblebee grimaced deeply.

Sam quirked an eyebrow, “Problem?”

It was a long moment before Bumblebee grudgingly replied, “Ravage has asked for you.”

Sam blinked at him in surprise. He had not spoken to the symbiont since Jazz had been revived. Unsurprisingly, the second-in-command had objected to her presence on the island. Although Optimus had not forbidden him from seeing her after that, neither did he encourage it. Then, in the build-up to the activation, Sam had not been able to find the time to visit her.

“Did she say why?” He asked curiously.

“No, she did not.” Bumblebee replied. His words were clipped and precise, as they often were when he was upset.

Sam briefly debated whether he should reassure the scout, but a pointed look from Bumblebee disabused him of that notion. Instead, he shrugged and finished the last of his yogurt. “Where is she?”

“The _Ark._ ”

“Tell her I’m on my way.”

Bumblebee’s expression became closed-off, but he nodded tersely. Sam gathered the garbage onto his tray and then they made their way across the mess hall, first to the trash and then out the large double-doors. As they passed the officer’s section, Sam’s steps faltered. He frowned, staring down the corridor, before turning to look at the holoform.

“I need to make a pit stop.” 

Bumblebee didn’t protest, and together they walked the short distance to his apartment. Sam grabbed his messenger bag off the hook by the door, confirmed that the contraband was still inside, and then he stepped back into the hallway. After he pulled the door shut behind him, wiggling the handle to confirm it was locked, Sam continued towards the bridge entrance. Bumblebee fell into step beside him.

The Hive seemed to wake up as they walked. The halls filled with a steady stream of people, on their way to the mess or to their postings. Sam passed Will near the junction between the officer’s section and general quarters. He nodded at the older man, and Will nodded back. By the time that they made their way to the receiving room, the Hive was a bustle of activity. Bumblebee drove slowly, navigating between dense foot traffic, as he made his way to the lift. To Sam’s surprise, a sleek charcoal-colored Nissan was already parked on the wide platform, next to a silver Pontiac solstice. Sam tipped his head to the side, turning his attention inwards towards the neural-net. He recognized the signatures of Jazz and Smokescreen immediately. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he felt a mental touch, first one and then the other. Before he could return the familiar greeting, however, Jazz’s smooth tenor was inside his head.

_//Your firewalls are down.//_

Sam grimaced deeply as he realized the second-in-command was right. He _pinged_ Jazz a wordless pulse of gratitude, and then gathered up his firewalls and pushed them into place. He stared at them considerately for a long moment, and then shored them up. How long had they been down?

“Not long.” Bumblebee assured him, as the lift started to ascend, “Ratchet had you firewalled until just before breakfast.”

Bumblebee’s words hit him unexpectedly hard—he hadn’t realized that the old medic had been shielding him the entire night. Sam swallowed around the emotion that thickened his throat, thankful for the mental privacy the firewalls provided. After a moment, he turned his attention towards the wizened glow that rested at the other end of the Creator bond.

 _//Thanks.//_ He murmured.

Sam’s words were met with a complicated swell of _impression_ and _sensation_ from the medic. Before he could even begin to puzzle out the emotions, Ratchet gruffly replied, _//Your thanks is unnecessary. I firewall you when you cannot do so yourself.//_

Sam stared at him a moment longer, unsure what to say. Eventually, he decided to give Ratchet his mental space, as it were, and withdrew as far as the Creator bond would allow. By the time Sam came back to himself, they were driving down Britannia Way in the direction of the airfield. The three Autobots drove in a tight convoy, with Jazz taking point, Bumblebee following behind him, and Smokescreen bringing up the rear. There were a few civilian vehicles trundling along the faded pavement, but otherwise the road was empty.

As they made their way through the Downtown area, Sam shifted in his seat, getting comfortable. It was a beautiful morning. The sky was a pale blue that stretched from one horizon to the other. The sun was just rising above Barton Point, sending pale crepuscular rays fanning across the atmosphere. He reached for the window switch, but Bumblebee rolled them down before Sam had the chance to do it himself. He breathed deeply as fresh sea air buffeted his face. He turned his head, staring out over the bay. Seabirds flew in low circles over the water, the sound of their screeching just audible over Bumblebee’s engines.

It was not long before the three vehicles turned in the direction of the _Ark_. The golden saucer-shaped ship was surrounded by an assortment of crates, heavy equipment, and floodlights. Despite the early hour, Sam could see that technicians and engineers were already at work on the outer hull. They were standing on an intricate scaffolding system that was braced against one side of the ship. Bluestreak stood on the ground, watching them with sharp optics. Jazz pulled to a stop a short distance away, Bumblebee and Smokescreen parked by his side. 

Sam climbed out of the cab, stepping backwards several paces. As soon as he was clear, the three Autobots transformed. Metal flashed in the early morning light as panels slid up, spread open, and slotted seamlessly into place. Sam tipped his head to the side, watching as they completed their transformation sequence.

“I’ll never get tired of that.” He admitted with a grin.

Bumblebee whistled amusedly, lowering into a loose crouch in front of him. Smokescreen came to stand beside Jazz, and both the second-in-command and the tactician looked down at him. Sam tilted his head, squinting in the bright light.

“What’re you up to this morning?” He asked. Jazz usually worked in the command center alongside Prowl, or he worked with his agents in the training grounds. He was rarely assigned to the _Ark._

“I have a few loose ends to tie up.” Jazz replied good-naturedly, “Looks like I’ll be joining you in Jasper.”

Sam blinked in surprise. “What, why?”

Jazz chuckled at him. “Your enthusiasm is touching.”

Sam’s face warmed with embarrassment, but Jazz saved him the effort of stumbling through an apology, “You and I are going to be getting better acquainted, little man.”

Sam didn’t know whether he was more affronted or intrigued. Smokescreen, however, looked at his commanding officer with open disapproval on his faceplates. He warbled something at him in a tone that Sam couldn’t interpret. Jazz glanced in his direction, seeming to consider what the tactician was saying, and then he shrugged his pauldrons. “I was referring to his height.” Jazz glanced in his direction, “No offense, Sam.”

“None taken.” Sam replied dryly, “And for the record, I’m taller than average.”

“So noted.” Jazz conceded.

“And what did you mean, better acquainted?” Sam asked.

Jazz seemed to consider him for a moment before he replied. “What do you know about infiltration?”

At his words, Bumblebee half-turned to look up at the second-in-command. His posture was suddenly tense and wary. Sam looked from Bumblebee to Jazz, and back again. “Um, not a lot. I mean, besides the fact that infiltrators are excellent liars.”

Bumblebee glanced back at him, his expression morphing into one of wry amusement. Jazz and Smokescreen looked equally amused by his words.

“Infiltrators are a type of scout, ones that specialize in the neural-network.” Jazz explained, “Like Bumblebee and myself.”

Sam canted his head to the side as he asked, curiously, “I thought you were a saboteur.”

“Sam my man, I am a mechanoid of many talents.” Jazz returned with a sharp grin.

Sam snorted. “Sure, Jazz. So what’s your point?”

Jazz lowered into a crouch in front of him, bringing them more to a height with one another. He rested his servos lightly on his knee-joints. When he spoke, his usual easygoing manner was gone, replaced by an uncharacteristic seriousness, “Ratchet has spent a great deal of time working with you on firewalling and filtering. I would like your permission to work with you on other aspects of neural-defense.”

Sam frowned faintly. “What other aspects?”

“Infiltrators are specialized in a wide skillset, from concealment to detection to offensive tactics.”

Sam listened with growing intrigue. “Offensive tactics?”

“You ever hear the saying ‘the best defense is a good offense’?” Jazz asked.

“Yeah, of course.”

“I’m going to teach you more about concealment and detection, as part of your education on neural-defense, but I would like to train you in more aggressive tactics as well.”

Sam was torn between uncertainty and budding excitement. He turned to look up at Bumblebee, but the scout was regarding the second-in-command in deep consideration. “What does that mean, exactly?”

Jazz hesitated, as though carefully considering his words. “It’s using the neural-network to attack as well as defend. You experienced it for yourself when you went after Blitzwing, even if you didn’t realize what you were doing at the time.”

Sam shivered at the memory of Blitzwing’s shrieks of agony. He had reacted on instinct, driven into a rage at the knowledge the triple-changer had attacked Bumblebee. Still, he could not deny the satisfaction he felt knowing that he had avenged his bonded, even if he hadn’t been able to defend him.

“Yeah.” Sam said slowly, “I think I’d like that.”

Jazz’s expression was deadly serious, “I need you to think carefully on your decision, Sam. Infiltration is not without its risks. I won’t lie to you—if we do this, it will be, by times, challenging and tedious and painful.”

The second-in-command’s words pulled him up short, and Sam glanced at him uncertainly, “Painful?”

“Yes.” Jazz replied without an iota of hesitation, “Infiltration is a difficult specialty, even for mechanoids, and I won’t go easy on you. There can’t be any half-measures—we do it properly, thoroughly, or we don’t do it at all.” 

Sam laughed nervously, “And Ratchet signed-off on this?”

“He did, albeit with a little convincing.” Jazz replied, some of his former humor warming his voice, “He’s as unyielding as the Pit, but even Ratchet can see sense when it comes to it.” 

Sam felt a swell of anger through the Creator bond, and he winced in response. He turned a sympathetic look towards the saboteur, “You’re going to regret that, you know.”

“I doubt it.” Jazz replied cheerfully, “He’d have to catch me first.”

Ratchet’s anger sharpened in Sam’s mind a moment before his presence disappeared behind a mental block. Sam closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. This was going to be an ongoing thing, he was certain of it. After a moment, he opened his eyes again and looked at Bumblebee. The scout was staring at him with bright optics.

 _//What are you thinking?//_ Sam asked.

_//Infiltration is arduous to learn. I found it frustrating and difficult and, yes, occasionally painful.//_

Sam bit his lower lip. _//Should I do it?//_

 _//Yes.//_ Bumblebee replied simply, _//As much as I might wish it, I won’t always be able to protect you. Jazz can give you the skills you need to protect yourself.//_

Sam looked into his bonded’s azure-colored optics, and saw nothing but sincere conviction.

“I’ll do it.” He said.

“Sam—“ Jazz began, but Sam interrupted him.

“I’ll do it.” He repeated, firmly. “Whatever it takes.”

Jazz seemed to consider him for a moment, and then he nodded. “Alright. It’s agreed, then.”

Jazz straightened to his full height and Bumblebee followed suit. To Sam’s surprise, the second-in-command was slightly shorter than his bonded—he certainly had a larger than life personality. After that, Jazz and Smokescreen bid their farewells. Jazz made his way over to Bluestreak, greeting him with a cheerful warble of Cybertronian. Smokescreen lingered behind, staring down at Sam. He seemed to wrestle with himself for a moment, and then he inclined his helm deeply before turning and striding towards the other mechanoids. Sam watched him go, glancing up at Bumblebee.

_//What was that all about?//_

Bumblebee shrugged, stepping towards the wide ramp that extended from the ground to the underbelly of the ship, _//Nothing of any import, I’m sure. We should go, there is a debriefing at noon.//_

Together they made their way into the ship. It was a bustle of activity, with human technicians working on re-wiring and soldering, all under the watchful gaze of one of the scientists. They passed Perceptor in the loading bay and Wheeljack in the atrium. The spindly engineer shifted from pede to pede at the sight of him, his dorsal fins brightening to sunshine yellow.

“Hey Jack.” Sam said cheerfully, “Whatcha working on?”

Wheeljack started to reply, and then he glanced past Sam towards Bumblebee. His shoulders curled forward and his dorsal fins became streaked through with gray. Sam turned, glancing at his bonded. Bumblebee did not seem overtly angry or defensive. He looked back at the engineer.

“Looks complicated.” Sam prompted.

Wheeljack’s dorsal fins fluttered expressively, but eventually he looked back at Sam. “Oh no, not at all. It’s tedious. Boring. Not at all interesting.” He replied, worrying his servos together, “Rewiring never is.”

Sam made a sympathetic sound. “How long will it take?”

Wheeljack cocked his head, his fins brightening again to sunshine yellow. “Oh, not much longer. A mega-cycle or two, I suspect.”

Sam translated this in his mind, and then his eyebrows rose up to his hairline, “Four to eight days? That’s your definition of ‘not long’?”

Bumblebee’s amusement washed across their bond like a warm breeze. “Wheeljack has been alive for six million years.” He reminded him, dryly.

“Yeah, that’s a fair point.” Sam conceded, smiling sympathetically at the engineer, “Well, good luck.”

They left Wheeljack to his business, making their way further into the ship. Sam stared at the large metal protrusions that extended from the floor of the atrium to the high ceiling, several stories up. The vast space was large even by Cybertronian standards, and to Sam it seemed cavernous. Their footsteps rang against the metal walkway, echoing across the atrium. When they turned down the corridor towards Ravage’s assigned accommodations, Sam was unsurprised to see Red Alert and another mechanoid standing outside the hangar. The unknown Autobot was tall and broad—he was mostly white, but his chassis was accented by red and black hash marks. He was staring down at Sam with an intensity he could almost feel.

“Hey Red Alert.” Sam greeted self-consciously, “How’re you?”

“I am functioning within acceptable parameters, thank-you Sam.” Red Alert replied.

Sam glanced up at the unknown mechanoid, pasting a hesitant smile on his face. “Hey. I don’t think we’ve met.”

The large mechanoid went down to one knee in front of him, his expression inscrutable.

“On the contrary, little one. My designation is Drift.” 

Sam flinched at the epithet. Drift’s optics sharpened, missing nothing, and he glanced up at Bumblebee. Understanding dawned on his face a moment later, and the large mechanoid inclined his helm. “Forgive me. I did not intend any offense.” 

“None taken.” Sam managed, clearing his throat, “Thank-you for everything you did. I don’t know how I can repay you.”

Drift shook his helm, “You owe me nothing. It is an honor to serve.”

Sam shifted his weight uneasily—he had no intention of touching _that_ with a ten foot pole. “Still. Thanks. You took a risk, I won’t forget it.”

Drift inclined his helm again, before rising to his full height and resuming his position opposite Red Alert. The Security Director turned, pressing a code into the keypad set into the wall. The doors opened with a soft pneumatic _hiss_.

“The cassette is inside. We will be here, if you require assistance.”

Sam nodded slowly, before turning and making his way into the hangar. Rather than reclining on the berth, which was where Ravage had been the last few times he saw her, the cyber cat was sitting in the center of the room. Her singular ruby optic followed him as he approached.

“Good morning.” She rumbled in her smooth, feminine register.

“Hey Ravage.” Sam replied, coming to a stop in front of her, “How’re you doing?”

“I am well.” She tilted her head at him considerately, “And you?”

Sam lifted a shoulder in a haphazard shrug, “Fine, I guess.”

She regarded him for a long moment. “It has been some time since last we spoke.”

There was a gentle rebuke in her words, and Sam was suddenly reminded of the way his mother scolded him for not calling when he stayed out late with Miles. The association was so acute that he found himself stammering an apology to her. Ravage smiled, amused.

“That is not necessary. I understand that you have been occupied these past weeks.”

Sam could _feel_ Bumblebee’s sudden tension, and he glanced over his shoulder at the scout. Although his outward appearance revealed nothing, Sam knew that Bumblebee was suddenly on guard. He turned back to Ravage and replied, carefully, “Yeah, it’s been busy. First the activation, and then the semester started.”

Ravage regarded him for a long time, her head tipped to the side.

“I am pleased that you are uninjured. I was concerned.”

As soon as the words left her vocoder, both Bumblebee and Ratchet were in his mind. They pressed _discretion_ at him so sharply it took his breath away. He didn’t need to be warned—he understood exactly what they were getting at.

“Nope, totally fine.” He replied, before attempting to change the subject, “What’ve you been doing?”

Ravage rumbled at him. The warm waft of air from her intakes ghosted over his face.

“I have been deep in thought. As you may know, I am the oldest of all of Soundwave’s symbionts.”

Sam tilted his head in surprise, “I didn’t know that, actually. How old are you?”

“Far older than any of your Autobots.” She replied, surprising Sam further. He knew that Kup was tens of millions of years old, “I have gained a great deal of knowledge over my long lifespan, none of it more surprising than the knowledge that the Allspark energy within your body can reanimate a spark.”

Sam stiffened from head to toe. Behind him, Bumblebee bit something out in rapid-fire Cybertronian, to which Ravage ex-vented a sharp snort.

“I am not a fool, Autobot.” She replied dryly, “I was there when your second-in-command was offlined. It does not take an intelligence agent to put those pieces together.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Sam managed. If her intention was to get him to confirm what she already knew, she had a strange way of going about it.

“Contrary to what your bonded might believe, my words were not a threat.” She replied.

“What were they then?” Sam asked, warily.

“An offer.”

“An offer to what?”

Ravage tilted her head to the side, pinning him with her gaze.

“You know that I am a cassette-class mechanoid. Do you remember what that means?”

Sam nodded slowly, “Yeah. You gather knowledge.”

“I do.” She agreed, “The pursuit and preservation of Cybertronian history is hard-coded into my base programming. It is my primary objective, in all things.”

Sam frowned faintly, “What’s your point?”

“You have within you the essence of the Allspark. The revival of your second-in-command has proven that you have its energy. I wonder: do you also have its knowledge?”

Sam’s frown deepened and he shook his head, “No, there’s only fragments.”

Ravage’s expression was inscrutable. “If you ever wish to verify that, you have but to ask. My Master would gladly assist you.”

“Sam, it’s time to leave.” Bumblebee interjected flatly.

Sam glanced up at his bonded, who was staring at Ravage with naked hostility. He nodded faintly, and Bumblebee straightened to his full height. The scout stepped away, and Sam hesitated before turning back to Ravage.

“I won’t be around for a while, so I’ll say my good-byes now.” He said, opening his bag. He glanced inside, and pulled out the two packages of M&Ms he had purchased at the mess hall. He extended the brightly colored confectionary towards her. “I wanted you to have this. I know it was you who brought it for me when I was on the _Nemesis_.”

Ravage’s expression gentled in some indefinable way. “Thank-you.”

Sam set the packages in front of her, just inches away from her large front paws. He straightened up, grasping the strap of his messenger bag with both hands.

“If you could, please give one of them to Thundercracker.” He murmured softly, “Your kindness, it was— I won’t forget it.”

“I will.” She rumbled.

Sam hesitated, before stretching out his arm to rest a hand against the side of her broad head. The smooth metal plates were warm beneath his fingers.

“Bye Ravage.”

Ravage leaned into his touch, rumbling deep within her chassis. “Good-bye, little Prime.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** As always, thank-you so much for your kind words and support. I loved writing this chapter because it's 100% slice-of-life, and that's totally my bag. Also, the embassy that I describe is (very loosely) based off a cold-war era bunker I've visited in real life. 
> 
> Also, [[this picture]](https://nextluxury.com/wp-content/uploads/studio-apartment-layout-design-ideas.jpg) was the rough inspiration for Sam's new apartment (minus the windows, of course!)

Sam and Bumblebee made it to the ground bridge hangar just before eight o’clock the following morning. Sam was bleary-eyed and half-asleep, clutching a steaming travel mug in both hands. Ratchet had woken him up in the middle of the night, insisting that it would help him adjust to the time difference between Diego Garcia and Nevada. Sam had grumbled and complained at length but, in true Ratchet fashion, the medic had just yanked the blankets off his bed and told him to go shower. Sam had laid sprawled across the mattress for the better part of twenty minutes before he grudgingly complied.

Bumblebee pulled to a stop a short distance away from the large archway. As Sam climbed out of the cabin, shouldering his messenger bag, he saw that Optimus was standing near the ground bridge controls. Dave Carter and Bill Fowler stood at his side, talking quietly with one another. Dave was dressed in a sharp suit, all clean lines and pressed seams. Bill was dressed far more casually. His button-up shirt was partially untucked and his suit jacket was rumpled, as though from a long day of wear. All three of them turned to look at Sam as he approached.

“Good morning.” Optimus rumbled in greeting.

“Morning.” Sam replied, “Or should I say good afternoon? What time is it in Jasper?”

“It’s just about seven o’clock.” Bill replied. His posture was loose and relaxed, his hands pressed into the pockets of his pants, “All set to go? Your things were bridged over last night.”

Sam had spent all of Thursday afternoon packing up the rest of his apartment. Acquisitions had arrived just before suppertime to haul the boxes away, and Ultra Magnus and the others had bridged over later in the evening. They brought with them a contingent of NEST soldiers who would provide security inside the embassy. The Americans would be responsible for defending the perimeter.

“Yeah, I think so.” Sam replied. He unscrewed the lid of his coffee, blowing on the steaming liquid, “Anything I should know beforehand?”

Bill lifted a large shoulder in a careless shrug, “You’ll meet your security detail when you arrive. They’re ready to greet you. After that, I thought I’d show you around the base. Embassy. Whatever.”

“Sounds good.” Sam agreed, before glancing up at Optimus. The Autobot leader was regarding him with solemn optics, “Will I see you anytime soon?”

After yesterday’s briefing, Optimus has spoken with him about what to expect in Jasper. Sam learned that, although he was taking up residence as their Ambassador, he would not be expected to perform duties of state, except for the occasional meeting or social function. Instead, he would focus on his schoolwork and on the readings that Optimus provided him on Cybertronian history, culture, and religion. They arranged to speak once a week, by telephone or in person, as Optimus’ schedule permitted, to explore Sam’s understanding of the material. Karen Anderson also made arrangements to meet with him each week in order to continue his therapy.

Optimus inclined his helm, “I will bridge over before Friday.” 

Sam nodded slowly, glancing around the hangar. “Well, this is good-bye, I guess. It feels strange to be leaving.”

Optimus optics visibly softened. “It will not be for long. Several months, perhaps a year.”

Sam laughed softly, smiling up at the dignified mechanoid.

“Like I already told Jack, you guys have a weird sense of time.” Sam replied, before adding, “But I appreciate the sentiment.” 

Optimus inclined his helm, and then glanced in Perceptor’s direction. The scientist was standing patiently at the ground bridge controls. At some unspoken command, his servos flew across the keyboard in front of him and then, a moment later, the ground bridge flared to life. Sam stared at the swirling blue-green miasma, already feeling a pang of homesickness. His attention was pulled away by a gentle touch in his mind. Sam hesitated, before letting the connection with Optimus brighten to life.

 _//I’ll be fine.//_ He murmured.

 _//I have complete faith in you, Sam.//_ The Autobot leader replied, his mental presence like an embrace.

 _//Thanks.//_ He replied, and then, after a brief hesitation, he leaned into the stately glow. He could feel Optimus’ surprise, his concern, and his undeniable fondness. Sam let the embrace linger for a long moment, and then he pulled away. He glanced in Bill’s direction.

“You good to go?” He asked.

Bill nodded. “Yep.”

Sam looked at Carter with a rueful smile, “I guess I’ll be seeing you.”

“Good-bye, Sam. You’ll be missed.” Dave said, returning his smile, “I’ll stop by sometime so we can finish the Glenlivet.”

Sam nodded at him, and then he and Bill made their way towards the ground bridge archway. As he approached the whirling miasma, he felt a warning touch in his mind.

 _//This will feel odd.//_ Bumblebee cautioned, _//Just put one foot in front of the other. I’m right behind you.//_

Sam glanced over his shoulder to see that Bumblebee had rolled forward. The bumper of his alt mode was scant meters away from the back of his legs. He nodded faintly at the scout, and then turned back towards the bridge.

“Okie dokie. Here goes nothing.” He muttered, taking a deep breath and stepping into the whirlpool of light. Sam was immediately thankful for Bumblebee’s warning. All at once, the neural-network disappeared from his mind. There was nothing, just an emptiness where _sensation_ and _impression_ and _vastness_ should have been. He flinched and stumbled, giving his head a sharp shake. He felt a steadying hand on his shoulder—Fowler—and then a moment later, they were stepping into a cavernous room. The neural-network came back to him in a rush, like a dam bursting open, and Sam swayed on his feet in response.

Fowler clapped him on the back with a great, meaty hand. “Yeah, it takes some getting used to.”

Ratchet was in his mind then, steadying him. Sam followed the mental trail to see the chartreuse mechanoid standing a short distance away, arms folded over his chassis. Ultra Magnus stood at his side, watching their arrival with sharp optics. Sam nodded at the medic, gratefully.

The room in which he found himself was large, perhaps the size of the receiving room of the Hive. Its floors were smooth, gray cement, and the walls were a lighter-colored cinderblock, except for the wall behind them, which was composed of rugged red sandstone. There was a squat platform to his left, perhaps three or four feet high, which led to a heavy-looking blast door. There was a NEST solider in full combat gear, sporting an M4 Carbine assault rifle, on either side of the doorway. On the wall directly opposite to the ground bridge was a large, dark tunnel. Above the trapezoid-shaped entryway, which was wider on the bottom than the top, the word “AMMUNITIONS” was stenciled in faded, yellow paint.

Fowler grinned at him. “Welcome to Jasper.”

The older man led him towards a cluster of people standing a short distance from the archway. Three men and one woman, all of whom Sam recognized from the docket that Fowler had given him earlier in the week. The men were almost carbon copies of one another—white, middle-aged, with close-cut hair and dark suits. The woman was younger, her pale blonde hair pulled back in a severe ponytail that reminded him of Mearing.

“Ambassador, this is your security detail. This is Agents Cook, Parker, Boynton, and Simmons.”

Sam shook each of their hands in turn, and when he got to Agent Simmons, she gave him a conspiratorial wink. “No relation.”

“Your security detail are responsible for your protection whenever you leave the base.” Fowler explained, “And whenever foreign dignitaries visit the embassy. While you are on Cybertronian soil, however, NEST is responsible for your wellbeing.”

Sam nodded his understanding. Optimus had explained as much to him yesterday afternoon. Fowler’s welcome speech was interrupted as the ground bridge flared to life behind them. Sam half-turned, staring over his shoulder. Bumblebee stepped through the swirling vortex a moment later with Luis Novo at his side. Sam’s eyebrows rose up to his hairline in surprise. As soon as the lieutenant caught sight of him, a wide grin spread across his face.

“Surprise.” He greeted cheerfully as he strode towards him, carrying a large duffle bag in one hand, “Guess who got reassigned to look after your lily-white ass?”

Sam laughed out loud at that, delighted by the unexpected turn of events.

“When did this happen?” He asked, glancing up at Bumblebee. The scout was looking at him in quiet amusement, and Sam knew at once that he had already known about it.

“The transfer was put through yesterday afternoon. I found out last night.” Luis said, glancing around the entrance hall, “Nice digs, very 1950s chic.”

Sam laughed again. “Well, it used to be a cold-war era bunker.”

“It did.” Fowler agreed, “Care for the ten-penny tour?”

Sam turned to look at the older man. He was surprised to find himself excited by the prospect. “Yeah, sure.”

“Great. Follow me.” Bill replied, strolling towards the squat platform. Sam and Luis followed behind, walking side by side, and two members of the security detail trailed after them. As he mounted the three metal steps, he glanced in Bumblebee’s direction. The scout had moved to stand beside Ratchet and Ultra Magus, and the three Autobots seemed engaged in discussion. When he realized that Sam was looking at him, Bumblebee made a _shooing_ motion with one servo. Sam rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

The platform led to a heavy-looking blast door, which was currently open and resting against the wall. As Sam neared, he saw that the door had to be at least three feet thick. Fowler followed his gaze and grinned at him.

“Two and a half feet of solid lead.” He confirmed, gesturing for Sam to step through the circular entrance. “It’s designed to close and seal itself automatically in the event of a nuclear strike.”

Sam found himself in a small antechamber. There were two doors immediately to the right as he entered, side-by-side.

“This is the decontamination room.” Fowler explained, gesturing towards the doors, “This is where people would have stripped out of their clothing and taken a decontamination shower before entering the shelter.” He continued on, stepping into what looked remarkably like the reception area of a high-end office building. There was a large semi-circular desk in front of them, above which the Autobot emblem was emblazoned on the wall. A young woman sat behind the desk, and she smiled at them as they stepped into the room.

“Welcome to Jasper, Mr. Ambassador.” She greeted him, standing up as she spoke. Her appearance screamed _professionalism_ from head to toe. She had shoulder-length auburn hair, tidy and styled, and she was wearing a cream-colored skirt suit.

“Please, call me Sam.” He replied faintly, totally out of his fucking element.

“The room we were just in, with the ground bridge, is the first room that you’d reach if you approached the base from the outside. It is accessible through two checkpoints and a three hundred meter long tunnel that cuts straight through solid rock.” Fowler explained, before gesturing meaningfully around them. “This is the actual embassy, which, as you noted, was converted from a cold-war era bunker. The embassy itself is small-ish. It was originally designed to shelter up to one hundred people for ninety days. This is the foyer, where visitors will be screened by security and provided temporary passes.”

As Fowler spoke, the young woman behind the desk extended a badge to both Sam and Luis. Sam accepted the badge, which was nearly identical to his one from NEST, except that it didn’t have a lanyard. Instead, it had a clip to affix the badge to a suit jacket. Since he wasn’t wearing one, Sam slipped the identification badge into his back pocket.

Fowler stepped further into the room, gesturing towards an open door. Sam made his way forward, glancing curiously inside. It was a large-sized conference room. The boat-shaped table had two dozen chairs around it, and more chairs lined the walls. At the far end of the room, an oak-colored podium with a microphone stood in one corner. To its left was a large monitor that took up most of the back wall.

“This is the situation room.” Fowler continued, “This is where we hold daily briefings, senior staff meetings, and press conferences.”

Sam slowly turned to look at the older man, aghast, “Press conferences?”

Fowler’s lips quirked in poorly concealed amusement.

“Press conferences.” He confirmed, “The establishment of an Autobot embassy is big news. We interviewed with Reuters and NPR this morning.”

Sam stared at him in disbelief, waiting for the punchline. When none came, he tipped his head back, closing his eyes in thinly veiled horror. After a moment, he forced himself to meet Bill’s gaze. “I don’t envy your PR person.”

Bill laughed and continued on down the hallway. After a moment, Sam gathered himself and followed behind him. They passed a number of offices as they made their way deeper into the base. Most of them were closed, but a few were cracked open. Sam caught glances of people as he passed, either bent over their work or staring back at him with naked curiosity on their faces. When they got to the end of the hall, Bill stopped in front of two large, glass doors.

“The first floor is mostly administration. It’s where the office staff have been stationed.”

Sam canted his head, “Office staff?”

“Optimus transferred all of his civilian support staff here from Nellis Air Force Base. We’ve got a full house.” Bill explained, turning and pulling open one of the frosted glass doors. The room within was filled with three long rows of cubicles, each with its own computer terminal. The wall to the left was covered with monitors of varying sizes, which displayed everything from news feeds to security camera footage. One monitor, nearer the center of the wall, was playing footage from the Weather Channel.

They made their way down one row of cubicles, stepping aside to let people pass as they walked. Although it was almost eight o’clock in the evening, the room was at quarter-occupancy. There were a number of small offices arranged in even increments along the left side of the room, all dark and quiet.

Bill led them through another double door, which opened into a long hallway. The floor was covered with worn blue carpet and oak-colored doors lined either side of the hall. The air was cool and faintly musty-smelling. They took a corner, and then another, and came to a T-shaped junction. Bill turned around to look at him, pointing down the left side of the hall.

“If you go that way, you will come out in Munitions. Back when this was a cold-war era bunker, that was where they would have stored weapons, fuel, and corpses, should the need arise. It’s since been converted for the Autobot’s use.”

Sam quirked an eyebrow. “Corpses?”

Fowler shrugged. “This bunker was designed to be Nevada’s seat of government in the event of nuclear war. They tried to prepare for every contingency.” 

Sam and Luis exchanged a look—Sam’s was incredulous, but Luis was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Fowler gestured down the opposite end of the hall, “This way, please.”

The long hallway was mostly deserted, but they passed the occasional person in business attire. As they turned a corner, a young woman in a gray skirt and blouse stepped around them, apologizing as she did so. Bill waved her off good-naturedly, continuing down the hall.

“That’s Jenny, she’s with legal. Nice kid.” He said.

They stepped through another set of double doors into a wide foyer. To the left was a U-shaped staircase, and to the right was another hallway. Across the foyer in front of them was a large, square entryway. Sam could hear the clatter of dishes and the cheerful din of talking within. Bill led them straight through the entryway into a small cafeteria that reminded Sam of the one in his high school. Four long trestle tables dominated the center of the room. There was a row of vending machines along the back wall, next to some casual seating, and the galley was to the right of the entrance. There were bright prints hung along the walls of what, to Sam’s best guess, was Nevada. He recognized the Las Vegas strip in one and Red Rock Canyon in another. The rest were nature scenes, mostly desert vistas.

“This is the cafeteria, in case you’re blind.” Bill informed them, “It’s open from oh-six-hundred to twenty-two hundred hours.”

The older man took a moment to point out the weekly menu where it was displayed at the end of the galley—apparently, today’s dinner special had been beef stroganoff—and then he was leading them out the door, turning left down the long hallway.

“The bullpen that we walked through earlier was logistics. This is legal, then we’ll pass through finance, and then there’s human resources.”

Bill stopped outside of a non-descript door. He glanced at Sam, gesturing meaningfully towards the electronic keycard reader set into the wall. Sam blinked at him in surprise, before pulling his badge out of his pocket and pressing it against the reader. The light flashed green, and then the door released with an electronic _click_. Bill pulled it open with one hand, reaching inside to snap on the light.

It was an office, Sam realized. There was an L-shaped desk that dominated the modest space. Behind the desk was a long row of cabinetry that also contained shelving for books. There were four boxes stacked neatly beside the desk, which Sam recognized as the ones he had packed yesterday. One of them had “Office Supplies” scrawled across the side in his barely legible handwriting.

“I get an office?” He asked, glancing at Bill. That seemed unnecessary.

“You’re the Ambassador.” Bill replied with a shrug. “It’d be weird if you didn’t.”

Sam doubted that he’d use it, but he nodded at Bill all the same. The older man snapped off the light, stepping back into the hallway and letting the door close behind him. They continued on to another T-junction, which included four comfortable-looking chairs arranged around a squat, circular table.

“Alright. If you continue down that hallway, you’ll pass medical and the gym, before ending back in reception.” Bill said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “This way leads to the mail-slash-copy room. You’ll want to check your mailbox every day, that shit can pile up fast.”

Sam made a noncommittal noise, and then Bill was leading them back the way they came. It took less than five minutes before they were in the foyer by the cafeteria. Bill cut across the space, making his way up the cement stairs. When they got to the top, they were met with another set of double doors. These were black metal and heavy looking, and they required an identification badge to unlock.

“This is the residential section. It’s only accessible by those with assigned quarters.” He said, pressing his badge against the reader and pulling open the door. Sam followed through after him, his brow furrowing slightly.

“What do you mean, those with assigned quarters?” He asked, “Isn’t everyone living here?”

Bill chuckled good-naturedly. “There are almost four hundred people assigned to the embassy, including the civilian support staff from Diego Garcia. There are only accommodations here for seventy-five people. The rest are staying in Jasper.”

The residential section had been renovated recently. It didn’t have the same dated feeling as the rest of the base, and the air smelled faintly of fresh paint and new carpet. They stopped briefly to show Luis where his quarters were—he was sharing a room with another enlisted man. The Lieutenant stowed his duffle bag, and then they continued on. Sam’s quarters were at the very back of the residential section, as far away from the stairwell as one could get. If Sam’s mental map was correct, that put him near the front of the base, a floor above where the reception area had been. Bill confirmed his suspicions a moment later.

“You were originally assigned quarters on the opposite side of residential, but Ratchet insisted we move you. Something about the range of their holoforms.” Bill said.

Sam pressed his identification badge against the reader set into the wall. The door released with a familiar-sounding _click_ , and then he pushed it open. Bill followed behind him, snapping on the overhead light. Sam’s new lodgings were smaller than his apartment in Diego Garcia. Although the floor and walls were made of the same drab, gray-colored cement as the rest of the base, the room was tastefully furnished, giving it a more modern feel. There was a small kitchenette immediately to the right as they entered. It contained a half-fridge, microwave, and sink. The kitchenette flowed into a small living space, with a dark-colored couch against one wall and an entertainment stand against the other. His bed was located against the far wall, facing the doorway. He slowly made his way into the room. There was a narrow closet immediately to the left of the front door—Sam noticed his garment bags were already hanging from the rod. The bathroom was directly across from the bed, large enough for only a sink, toilet, and standing shower.

Sam turned slowly, taking in the room. He could see Carter’s influence in the dark furniture and modern accents. Finally, his eyes fell on the rest of his boxes, which were stacked neatly beside the entertainment stand.

“We had originally intended you to be in the Governor’s suite. It’s a hell of a lot nicer.” Bill said with an apologetic roll of his shoulders, “This used to be a common room. We converted it when Ratchet said you had to be within sensor range.”

“It’s great.” Sam replied honestly, looking around, “I love it.”

Bill looked at him closely, as though taken aback by his enthusiasm. After a moment, he nodded. “Alright, well, do you need anything else?”

Sam shook his head, “No, thanks. I’ll get to unpacking.”

“Your schedule is accessible through your Outlook client.” Bill said, “And since our cellphones don’t get reception inside of a god-damn mountain, we do all of our communicating through e-mail. Obviously, the Wi-Fi doesn’t work, but there’s a hardline for your laptop behind the couch.”

“Thanks.” Sam replied. He understood now why Optimus had arranged for him to have office space—there was no way that he could do all of his school work sitting on the couch.

After that, Bill and Luis bid him farewell. As the door closed behind them, Sam looked around his new apartment with a wide grin. He was living inside of a _nuclear bunker_. How cool was that?

Sam spent the next two hours unpacking his things. He quickly realized that the closet was too small to hang up all of his clothing, so he took out whatever he would wear day-to-day and stored the rest. He unpacked his books and video games next, arranging them inside the entertainment center. When he finished that, Sam made his way over to the kitchenette. He pulled open one cupboard, which had an assortment of dried goods stored inside, and then he pulled open another, which revealed neatly stacked dishware. Sam took down a mug, and then pulled open the mini-fridge. It was empty except for a bottle of Glenlivet, which had a big bow tied around its neck.

Sam laughed happily as he pulled the bottle out of the fridge. There was a note affixed to it, and he immediately recognized Carter’s tidy writing.

> _Welcome home._
> 
> _-DC_

Sam felt warm appreciation swell in his chest. He stared at the bottle considerately for a moment, and then he uncapped it with a twist of his wrist. He poured himself two fingers of the amber-colored spirits, and made his way back over to the boxes. He sipped the alcohol as he worked, and in short order, both his glass and the boxes were empty. Sam set the mug on the bedside table, and started breaking down the cardboard. He had no idea where to put them, but for now, he left them near the front door. 

Sam retrieved the mug, filling it for a second time and making his way over to the couch. He settled down in his customary spot, sipping at his drink as he turned on the television. That was where Bumblebee found him when his holoform materialized in Sam’s apartment a short while later. Sam smiled at him affectionately, swirling the whiskey in his glass.

“Carter deserves a raise.” He said, conversationally.

Bumblebee chuckled at him. “Dave Carter’s competency is well reflected by his salary.”

Sam hummed approvingly, and Bumblebee made his way over to the couch.

“Do you like it?” He asked, waving a hand to indicate the room as he sat down.

“You know I do.” Sam replied, curling up against the holoform, “It’s nice.” 

They fell into a companionable silence after that, which suited Sam just fine. By the time that the credits for _The Witcher_ began to roll, Sam could feel himself nodding off. A cursory glance at the clock on the DVR revealed that it was almost eleven o’clock at night. As such, he didn’t protest when Bumblebee helped him out of his clothing and into bed less than twenty minutes later. The sheets were soft and smelled like laundry soap. The holoform crouched down beside him, resting his weight on the balls of his feet.

“I can’t stay, I have sentry detail.” Bumblebee murmured, apologetically.

“Mm. ‘Sokay. I understand.” Sam said, and then something occurred to him, “How far do your holoforms reach, anyway?”

“Not far, I’m afraid. If I reduce the sensitivity of my sensory array, I could reach your office, but no farther.”

Sam felt a pang of disappointment, “So no more meals together, huh?”

“Not in the cafeteria, no. I’m sorry.”

Sam sighed softly. He enjoyed sharing meals with Bumblebee, even if he was the only one who ate anything. The holoform must have sensed his disquiet, for he pressed a chaste kiss against his forehead.

“Then it’s a good thing that you have a kitchenette.” He teased, a soft smile on his face.

“Yeah, that’s true.” Sam conceded, before another thought occurred to him, “Hey, Bill said that most of the embassy personnel live in Jasper. What’s the city like?”

“It’s not a city.” Bumblebee replied. “Jasper itself has a population of just over four thousand people.”

“Will I get to see it?”

“Perhaps, eventually. Prime has the base on high alert until the whereabouts of the _Upstart_ are known.”

“After that, though?” He asked.

Something softened on Bumblebee’s face. “I’m sure it can be arranged. Go to sleep, I’ll see you in the morning.”

Sam obliged him, pulling the blankets up around his ears as he shifted against the mattress. Bumblebee pressed a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth and then disappeared, leaving Sam alone in the apartment once again. The room was quiet and dark, except for the light above the sink, which bathed the kitchenette in a faint glow. It took almost no time at all before Sam was drifting off, his concerns from the week the furthest thing from his mind.

* * *

Sam slept deeply for the entire night, unbothered by bad dreams or mysterious omens. When he finally awoke, slowly and reluctantly, it was to the pleasant sensation of fingers combing through his hair. He sighed contentedly, leaning into Bumblebee’s winter-white glow as the holoform continued the welcome caress. Eventually, Bumblebee _nudged_ him meaningfully.

“You should get up. It’s getting late.”

Sam grumbled into the pillow.

“I’m comfortable.”

Bumblebee’s presence brightened with tolerant amusement, but he shoved at his shoulder anyway. “That may be so, but you have things to do today.” 

“Things? What things?”

“You have class at ten o’clock, a briefing at one, and Jazz wants to start working with you this afternoon.”

That got Sam’s attention. He lifted his head, squinting his eyes open at the holoform. “What does that mean?”

Bumblebee lifted his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. “Jazz has a great deal of experience training up new infiltrators. I imagine that he’ll begin by learning what you can already do, to gain a baseline for his future instruction.”

“Did he train you?”

“Yes he did, at the start of the war. I had received instruction on defensive aspects of infiltration before I met him. He was the one who taught me offensive tactics.” Bumblebee replied, pushing into a standing position from where he crouched beside the bed, “Come on, get up. I’ll put some coffee on while you shower.”

It was hard to argue with that. Sam pushed the blankets away, padding over to his closet to get a change of clothes. He hesitated as he stared at his options. He had dressed casually at the Hive, but it seemed somehow inappropriate to be seen downstairs in a Doors t-shirt and faded jeans. He waffled for a long moment, before pulling down a button-up shirt and slacks that were more business casual than casual, and making his way to the bathroom. He relived himself, brushed his teeth, and showered in record time. By the time that he finished pulling on his clothes, the smell of coffee filled the air. He stepped out of the bathroom, grinning at the sight of Bumblebee leaning against the kitchen counter. The holoform held out a coffee mug as Sam approached, which he accepted with a cheeky wink.

“Why thank-you, darling. It smells wonderful.”

“You’re welcome, dear.” Bumblebee replied dryly, without missing a beat, “I hope you have a nice day at the office.”

Sam chuckled quietly, blowing across the steaming mug. The clock on the microwave read 9:01 AM in blocky green numbers.

“You know, I don’t have to be downstairs for a while yet.” He pointed out, raising his eyebrows suggestively, “I could think of a few things to kill some time.”

“First of all, your firewalls are down.” Bumblebee informed him. Sam’s salacious expression was gone in an instant, replaced by hot embarrassment, “Secondly, you have to set up your computer. It’s only been installed with the basic software.”

Sam barely heard him—he was too focused on getting his firewalls in place. It was only after they were neatly slotted around his mental presence that the words filtered through his mind.

“Oh. Well, I better get going then. Raincheck?”

Bumblebee pushed off the counter, stepping forward to grasp Sam by his hips. The holoform pressed against him, chest to chest, and kissed him deeply. It was an affectionate caress, soft and sweet, and Sam returned it eagerly. After a moment, Bumblebee pulled away slightly, so that their mouths were scant inches apart.

“I look forward to it.” He murmured.

Sam’s pulse quickened for reasons other than the caffeine in his bloodstream. He swallowed dryly, nodding.

“Uh, yeah. Yes. Me too.”

Bumblebee’s expression was all dry amusement.

“Get something to eat. I’ll see you this afternoon.”

* * *

Sam’s morning was surprisingly pleasant. He spent half an hour setting up his computer and unpacking his office supplies. As he waited for ten o’clock to roll around, he started sorting through his Inbox. Evidentially, he had been added to another Listserv specifically for the embassy. There were already a dozen e-mails waiting for him to read.

His class went well enough. The professor lectured for half an hour, and then opened the floor for questions. Sam didn’t have any questions himself, but he listened to what his classmates asked. After that, he closed out the browser and went back to his e-mail client. He had three new messages waiting for him, and one required a reply. Sam read his response three times, waffling over the signature. Eventually he settled on “All the best” rather than “Sincerely”, which seemed too formal.

When that was finished, Sam decided to get a head start on his readings about Cybertron. Optimus had provided him with a datapad loaded with texts, as well as a reading list that matched specific files with due dates. He quickly located this week’s reading, seven thousand words on political ideologies, and settled in for a long haul. He made notes on a legal pad as he read, his brow furrowed with concentration. The material was as dry as a slice of toast, but it was interesting at least.

Just before noon, there was a knock on the door. He glanced up to see a young woman poking her head into his office.

“Good morning, Mr. Ambassador. Do you need anything?”

Sam blinked at her. “Um, no. No, thank-you. Miss…?”

“My name is Kate. Kate Wilson, sir.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Kate. Please, call me Sam.” He managed.

A familiar look flitted across her face, equal parts surprise and refusal. Sure enough, she smiled at him apologetically a moment later. “That would be inappropriate, sir. Forgive me.”

“It’s fine.” Sam replied tiredly.

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything? Something to eat? Another coffee, perhaps?”

He glanced reflexively down at his empty mug, which he had finished an hour ago. She smiled at him brightly, disappearing back into the hallway before he had a chance to decline her offer. He sighed heavily, shaking his head as he turned back to his research. He had two pages of notes and questions written down on the legal pad, and he wasn’t even halfway done.

Kate re-appeared a short while later bearing a steaming cup of coffee.

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know how you take it.” She said, handing him the disposable cup and a handful of creamers and sugar packets.

He could hear the question in her words, but he didn’t indulge her curiosity.

“Thank-you, Kate.” He replied, stirring sugar into the coffee. She nodded at him politely, taking his words for the dismissal they were, and stepped back into the hallway.

Sam sipped at the coffee for a long while, feeling guilty and wondering whether he should apologize, when he caught sight of the time. He had less than a half an hour until the briefing at one o’clock. He swore softly, pushing away from the desk and striding out of his office in the direction of the cafeteria. He would need to have a quick lunch or he was going to be late.

Thankfully, the line-up at the galley was short. He scarfed down the premade turkey sandwich he bought on his way to the situation room, sliding into one of the last remaining seats at the table. The room was full with people that Sam didn’t recognize, except Fowler, who sat near the head of the table, and Kate, who sat in a chair against the wall. It was immediately evident that everyone else knew each other, chatting amiably as they waited for the meeting to start. Sam was left alone except for the occasional polite greeting, and that suited him just fine.

At one o’clock exactly, the door to the conference room opened and a stranger made his way to the front of the room. He was tall and broad shouldered with dark, neatly styled hair. The man had the body of a pro-athlete, but he dressed like a corporate lawyer. Sam was staring at the newcomer’s suit, which would have given Dave a run for his money, when he noticed the Autobot insignia pinned to his lapel.

“Good afternoon, please be seated.” The stranger began, brisk and no-nonsense. He waited until the chatter died away and he had the attention of everyone in the room before he continued, “The agenda for today’s meeting is short. We will begin with introductions—Mr. Miller, if you would please.”

They went around the table, providing their names, positions, and a brief summary of their responsibilities. It quickly became evident that they were introducing themselves to Sam, and not to each other. Sam’s heart beat harder in his chest as he mentally rehearsed his greeting. Then, it was his turn, and he spoke as clearly and evenly as he could manage.

“Sam Witwicky, Autobot Ambassador to Earth.”

The words sounded stranger than they did in his head, but before he could dwell on it, the man beside him was introducing himself. When the last person had finished their introductions, the newcomer in the expensive suit nodded sharply.

“Very good. As you are all aware, my name is Ultra Magnus. I am presiding over the embassy in Optimus Prime’s stead.”

Sam blinked in abject surprise. He had no idea that Ultra Magnus even had a holoform, let alone that he’d been at the embassy long enough to already know everyone in the room. Before Sam could ask Bumblebee about it, however, the City Commander began the meeting. Sam sat up straighter in his chair, focusing his full attention on what Ultra Magnus was saying. Although he looked nothing like Optimus’ holoform, Sam could see the similarities in the way that he took charge of a room. He spoke clearly and directly, radiating a quiet confidence that was impossible to ignore. A cursory glance around the table confirmed that every person present was listening to him intently.

As it turned out, the agenda might have been short, but the meeting itself ran long. By the time that Ultra Magnus thanked them for their time, it was half-past three o’clock. Sam breathed a sigh of relief, standing up and stretching his back. He had been bored out of his mind for the better part of an hour.

“Sam.” Ultra Magnus called as he strode towards him, “Jazz wishes to see you as soon as is convenient.”

“Oh. Thanks for letting me know.” Sam managed to reply. _As soon as is convenient_ would have to wait until after a bathroom break, because he was almost in physical pain at this point.

Dry amusement flickered across Ultra Magnus’ face.

“I am sure he can wait that long.” The holoform intoned, “Go, before you injure yourself.”

Sam realized two things in that moment. One, his firewalls had fallen apart sometime during the meeting, and two, Ultra Magnus had been listening to him think about how bored he was for God only knows how long. Sam went hot all over as mortification turned his face a vivid crimson. The holoform’s lips twitched in amusement, and he strode out of the conference room without another word.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **FRIENDLY REMINDER:** I answer a lot of questions in the comments, and that includes some major spoilers. Read with caution. 
> 
> **Chapter Warnings:** Explicit sexual content (about two-thirds of the way through the chapter).

Sam stared at Ultra Magnus’ receding back for a long moment, wishing that he could either spontaneously combust or sink into the floor. When neither of those things happened, Sam turned his attention inwards and pushed his firewalls back into place. After that, he made his way out of the conference room and into the lobby. The young woman who had greeted them the day before was sitting behind the desk, working away. He ambled over and cleared his throat. She looked up at once, smiling as she recognized him. 

“Yes, Mr. Ambassador?”

He grimaced internally, but rather than correcting her, he asked, “Where’s the nearest restroom?”

She stood up and leaned over the desk, pointing down the hall towards logistics, “You’re going to go straight down, take the first left. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank-you… Donna.” He said, glancing at her identification badge.

She smiled at him courteously, and Sam made to follow her directions. He hadn’t gone three steps before he turned back around. “Wait, sorry, what’s the quickest way to Munitions?”

Donna tipped her head to the side, thoughtfully. “From here, it would be quickest to go through the ground bridge hangar. From your office, though, it would be better to take the interior entrance.”

“Thanks.” Sam replied, turning back around and walking down the hall. The restroom was where Donna said it would be, and as he pushed open the doors, he noted that the room was empty. He used the nearest urinal, resisting a sigh of relief as he did so. After he relieved himself, he flushed the urinal and stepped over to the sink. As he washed his hands, he couldn’t help but wonder what was in store for him. Ratchet had obviously objected to the idea of infiltrator training, which both Jazz and Bumblebee had said was difficult and painful.

Sam felt a twist of anxiety in his gut. Just how difficult and painful were they talking about, exactly?

The doors to the restroom swung open, pulling Sam out of his thoughts. A stranger made his way over to the urinals and, realizing that he’d been woolgathering with the water running, Sam turned off the taps. He glanced up as he did so, meeting the gaze of his reflection. Although he was still thin, he was less gaunt and his cheekbones were not as prominent as they had once been. His skin had also lost its pale, waxy pallor and there was color in his cheeks again. Sam stared at himself for a long moment, suddenly aware of just how far he had come since his rescue. The thought caused a complicated twist of emotion, and all at once, the anxiety that he had been feeling was gone.

He would never be that helpless, ever again.

Sam pushed away from the counter, grabbing some paper towel from the dispenser. He dried his hands and tossed the crumpled material into the garbage on his way out of the restroom. He made his way back down the hall towards the lobby. He passed the reception desk, nodding to Donna as he did so, and stepped through the antechamber into the ground bridge hangar. The cavernous room was far quieter than it had been when they arrived yesterday evening. There was still a NEST soldier standing on either side of the entryway, and two more standing near what Sam assumed was the exit tunnel, but otherwise the hangar was empty.

Sam pushed his hands into his pockets, making his way down the stairs and towards the Munitions entrance. The trapezoid-shaped tunnel extended as far as he could see, illuminated by toffer lights hanging down its full length. Sam walked quickly, not entirely sure where he was going. The tunnel was large, with more than enough room for even Optimus to travel in both his bipedal and alt modes. As Sam walked, he noted large, metal doors set into the walls on either side of the tunnel. They were bare except for a serial code stenciled across the front in faded yellow paint.

Eventually, Sam took a corner and the corridor opened into a large space, similar in dimensions to the ground bridge hangar. There was a metal scaffold against the far wall and a makeshift medical bay set-up in an alcove to his left. It contained four berths, including one that was arranged with all manner of human-purposed medical equipment. The tunnel continued on to his right, disappearing around a bend in the wall.

Sam was not surprised to find Jazz, Ratchet, and Bumblebee waiting for him near the medical bay. He smiled at them as he approached, tilting his head to the side.

“Nice place you’ve got here.” He said by way of greeting, “Who’s your interior decorator? They’ve done a bang-up job.”

His words were met with varying degrees of exasperation and amusement. Jazz crouched down, resting his servos on his knee struts.

“Thanks, Hoss. I pushed for a contemporary-minimalist motif, but Ratchet insisted on post-apocalyptic. As you can see, I was overruled.” 

Sam’s lips quirked up in a smile. “It does have a real _Night of the Living Dead_ feel going on in here.”

“I’d say _Dawn of the Dead_ , but tomato, to-mah-toe.”

Sam’s smile curled wider, delighted by the exchange. “You’re a Romero fan?”

Jazz’s answering grin was sharp. “Sam my man, I am a Romero _connoisseur_.”

“If you two are finished, we have a reason for being here.” Ratchet cut in, voice sharp with impatience. Sam glanced up at the medic to see a supremely unimpressed expression on his faceplates.

“Throttle down, Ratchet. You’ll trip a wire.” Jazz said, without a hint of cheek in his voice.

Sam winced as Ratchet’s expression darkened by an order of magnitude. Jazz must have sensed the precariousness of the medic’s temper, for he seemed to grow serious. He turned back to Sam, extending a servo towards him. “Up you get.” 

Sam steadied himself with a hand on Jazz’s curled digits, stepping onto the proffered palm. The second-in-command straightened to his full height, which was appreciably shorter than Ratchet, before crossing over to the berths. He set Sam down in front of a too-familiar gurney, and Sam climbed on without further prompting. When he was settled on the mattress, with his legs hanging over the sides, he glanced up at the three Autobots uncertainly.

“Okay, so what now?”

Jazz smiled at him, easy and relaxed.

“We’re going to pick up where we left off in the command center. Release your firewalls, please.”

Sam frowned faintly. “What, why?”

“I need to be able to monitor you while we work, and I don’t have Creator programming.”

Ratchet fixed him with a cool look. “It wouldn’t matter if you did.”

The second-in-command ignored the comment, his attention focused solely on Sam. He felt a gentle thrum of _reassurance_ from Bumblebee, who had moved to stand beside him, and after a moment, Sam let go of his firewalls. The neural-network was calmer than it had been on Diego Garcia, but he could readily make out their three signatures, nearby and familiar. If he concentrated, he could make out Ultra Magnus further away and Wheeljack further still, but he couldn’t perceive anyone else. The realization caused him to furrow his brow in confusion.

“They’re standing sentry or on patrol.” Jazz explained, answering his unspoken question.

“Alright.” He replied slowly, “So how’re we doing this?”

“Ever play tag as a kid?” Jazz asked rhetorically, causing Sam to roll his eyes.

“Yeah, obviously.”

“Great. You’re it.” Jazz returned with a lazy grin. “Catch me if you can.”

The saboteur’s indigo glow moved a short distance away. Sam followed after him, uncertain what to expect. Jazz moved slowly and purposefully, telegraphing his intentions, yet whenever Sam neared, he slipped away. By the third time, Sam narrowed his eyes and pushed himself faster. Jazz matched his pace effortlessly, staying just out of reach. The second-in-command moved like quicksilver, and Sam was beginning to get a feel for it. He wasn’t sure for how long they darted across the neural-network, his entire focus was narrowed down to the indigo-colored glow. Then, Jazz made to flit to the side, but Sam was faster. He brushed against him, and was met with a warm thrum of _approval._

Sam glanced up at the silver mechanoid, a wry smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“I know you let me do that.”

Jazz’s expression was openly amused. “I believe in positive reinforcement. Now try again.”

They continued the game, moving across the neural-network in tandem. Jazz maintained the distance between them, and Sam slowly realized what he was doing—the second-in-command was testing him for speed and dexterity both, seeing how quickly Sam could turn on a dime and adjust his telemetry. Whatever Jazz found seemed to please him, for his mental presence was warm and approving.

When Sam had caught Jazz for the fourth or fifth time, the second-in-command rolled his shoulders. “Alright, take a break.”

It was only then that Sam noticed the headache that was blossoming from his temples. He grimaced, rubbing a hand across his forehead.

“Drink this.” Ratchet instructed briskly, handing him a bottle of red-colored fluids. Sam accepted it without complaint, twisting off the cap and taking a deep draw. He recognized the taste of Gatorade immediately. He took another long drink, before glancing up at Ratchet. The medic was watching him closely, but his expression had lost its angry edge from earlier. Instead, he looked contemplative, almost pensive. Before Sam could ask him what was on his mind, Jazz _brushed_ against him.

“I’d like to try something before we finish for the day.” He said, canting his helm to the side, “We played tag, now we’re going to see how you do with hide and seek.”

“Okay.” Sam agreed readily, “What do you want me to do?”

“I understand you’re good with an egress filter.” Jazz said, catching Sam by surprise.

“Better than firewalling, anyway.” Sam returned dryly.

“Super. Alright, try to find me.” Jazz said, and then a moment later, his indigo-colored glow disappeared. Sam frowned faintly, staring at the spot the saboteur had been a moment ago, before glancing up to meet his optics.

“I don’t know how.” He admitted.

“I’m not far. Look for me.”

Sam’s expression became dubious, but he turned his attention back towards the neural-network. It remained dark and quiet, except for the familiar glow of Ratchet and Bumblebee a short distance away. He could sense nothing of the second-in-command.

“I have no idea what I’m looking for.” Sam said after several minutes, “How am I supposed to find you when you’re filtering? I thought that was the point of an egress filter in the first place.”

“An egress filter is only as good as the mechanoid who’s using it.” Jazz corrected him, “Their effectiveness depends on programming, skill, and experience.”

Sam snorted self-deprecatingly. “I guess that explains how Megatron found me right away.” 

The words were barely out of his mouth when he felt Ratchet’s sharp disapproval.

“You were barely online for four months before the attack. Don’t say such things again.”

Sam was taken aback by the vehemence of Ratchet’s tone. He glanced up at the medic, only to find him looking down at Sam with an uncharacteristically emotive expression. Ratchet must have realized his transparency, or at least felt Sam’s sudden uncertainty, for the expression was gone a moment later.

Bumblebee brushed against him gently, catching Sam’s attention.

“It’s a simple matter, once you know what you’re searching for. Look here.”

Bumblebee’s winter-white glow was beside him, soft and welcoming. As Sam watched, his signature disappeared, melting into the darkness of the neural-network. Sam moved closer, frowning.

“I don’t see anything.” He said in frustration.

“Look.” Bumblebee urged softly, _nudging_ him across their bond.

“I _am_ looking.” Sam snapped back.

“You process the neural-network in terms of sensory input.” Ratchet cut in, evidentially unfazed by Sam’s temper, “Look closely, he hasn’t moved.”

Sam bit back his angry reply, turning his attention towards the neural-network. He stared at the spot that Bumblebee had been a moment before, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed in concentration. There wasn’t anything different about—

All at once, Sam noticed the faint _hazy_ quality of the darkness. It was almost impossible to see, similar in appearance to the way that the air sometimes shimmered above the pavement on a hot day. 

“I see it.” He breathed, excitement building in his chest.

“Good, Sam.” Bumblebee praised.

“Now that you know what you’re looking for, find me. I’m not far.” Jazz instructed.

This exercise proved to be a great deal more frustrating than the game of tag had been. The neural-network was a three-dimensional space, and he was looking for a needle in a haystack. Jazz took pity on him, helping him along by telling him “Warmer” and “Colder” as he searched. Sam’s head was pounding in earnest by the time that he finally noticed the patch of darkness that was slightly different than the rest.

“Oh, thank God.” Sam groaned, his head falling back in relief.

Jazz’s indigo-colored glow materialized from the darkness. He pressed forward, smoothing over Sam’s mind. “Good first day, champ.”

Sam pressed his fingertips into his temples, rubbing firm circles into his skin, “Thanks, coach.”

Jazz ex-vented a good-natured laugh, as Ratchet meaningfully _nudged_ against him.

“Finish your drink.”

Sam obliged him without comment, taking another long draw of the sugary beverage. As he nursed the drink, Bumblebee’s holoform materialized on the berth in front of him. He reached out to clasp the sides of Sam’s face, his thumbs smoothing over his cheekbones. There was a small, pleased smile on his face.

“I knew you’d do well.” He murmured, raising his hands to comb his fingers through Sam’s hair.

“Thanks.” He grunted, before directing his next question towards Ratchet, “Do you have any aspirin?”

The medic shook his helm faintly, “It won’t help you. The pain is neurological, not physiological.”

Sam stared at him confusedly, “…What?”

Ratchet ex-vented a snort, but when he spoke, his voice was patient, “The pain is caused by overexertion of your neural connections, not constriction of intracranial vessels or over-production of prostaglandin. Anti-inflammatories aren’t going to help you. If the pain worsens, I can put you in stasis to resolve it.”

Sam flinched at the medic’s words, his gaze falling away. He had to swallow around the lump in his throat before he could quietly reply. “No. Thank-you.”

Ratchet stared down at him, his scrutiny an almost tangible thing. After a long moment, the medic _nudged_ at him purposely. Sam forced himself to drag his eyes back up to Ratchet’s face. The understanding that he saw there made Sam feel flayed open and exposed.

“You needn’t be afraid.” Ratchet reassured him gruffly, “I can put you in deep-stasis, you would have no awareness of your surroundings.”

Sam cleared his throat, shaking his head. “That’s okay, I’ll tough it out.”

Ratchet’s expression was inscrutable but intense. “You won’t be able to avoid stasis indefinitely, Sam.”

“Are we done here?” He asked, unable to meet Ratchet’s gaze as he slid off the gurney.

Ratchet considered him for another long moment, before nodding tersely. “Let me know if you change your mind. Otherwise, get something to eat and go lie down.”

Bumblebee extended his servo towards him, and Sam stepped on without another word. The scout carried him across the hangar, setting him down on the metal scaffold against the opposite wall. As soon as his feet were under him, Bumblebee’s holoform appeared at his side. Together, they made their way through the large double-doors and back into the embassy. It was not long before Sam recognized the faded blue carpet and oak-colored doors from the area near logistics, and shortly thereafter, Bumblebee pulled up short.

“I can’t go any farther.” He said apologetically.

Sam nodded in understanding, stepping close to the holoform and pressing a kiss against his jaw. “I’ll see you upstairs?”

“Of course. I’m free until I relieve Arcee at eight.”

“I won’t be good company.” Sam warned him mildly, “I feel like shit.” 

Bumblebee’s expression softened, “Your company is always welcome.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but he was smiling when he kissed the holoform again. He stepped away, striding deeper into the base. He could feel Bumblebee’s eyes on him as he walked, and then a moment later, the holoform disappeared. It took less than ten minutes for Sam to make his way through administration and over to the cafeteria. He assumed his place at the back of the line, which was appreciably longer than it had been at noontime. The large room was filled with the sound of good-natured chatter, the clink of dishware, and the clatter of pots and pans. Although the noise created a comfortable atmosphere, it did absolutely nothing for Sam’s headache.

He selected a hearty-looking stew and a kaiser roll, pushing his tray down the galley towards the cash registers. After he paid for his meal, he sat down at an empty spot at the nearest table and tucked into his food. The stew was thick and fragrant, with finely chopped vegetables and soft cubes of diced beef. He stopped eating periodically to tear off a piece of the roll, sopping up the sauce and popping it into his mouth. He found that by the time he was done eating, he was feeling marginally better. The headache had receded to a painful throb, rather than a gruesome pounding.

He carried his tray over to the receptacle, throwing away his garbage and stacking his dirty dishes. Then he made his way out of the cafeteria, turning right to climb up the wide-set cement staircase. A pair of men in civilian clothing held the door for him, and then Sam was trudging down the hall towards his apartment. He dug his identification badge out of his pocket as he approached, but Bumblebee pulled the door open before he had the chance to unlock it.

“Welcome home, dear.” Bumblebee said dryly, stepping aside so that Sam could enter.

“Thanks, darling.” He replied, toeing off his shoes and tossing his badge on the counter. The clock on the microwave read 6:47 PM. He had been in the Autobot’s section for longer than he had realized. Sam made his way over to the sofa and sank down with a groan. He let his head fall back against the cushions, eyes squeezed closed. A moment later, he felt Bumblebee sit down beside him.

“You did well today.” Bumblebee murmured, grasping Sam’s shoulders and maneuvering him until he was laying with his head in the holoform’s lap.

“The headache I’m currently nursing doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.” Sam replied dryly.

Bumblebee hummed a negation, carding his fingers through Sam’s hair. “You’re young and inexperienced; there will inevitably be an adjustment period.”

Sam shifted against the cushions, his knees bent over the arm of the couch. When he was settled down again, Bumblebee continued his ministrations. To his credit, the holoform gave one hell of a scalp massage. He laid there like that for a long while, eyes closed and hands folded over his belly, drifting. It would be a stretch to say that he was comfortable, but he was certainly content.

“Where’re you stationed for sentry duty?” Sam murmured.

“At the entrance to the property.”

“Where’s that?”

“Five miles due east. The property is just under thirty square miles in total.”

“Do you think I could see it sometime?” He asked, squinting open his eyes. The holoform glanced down at him, and Sam was surprised to see that he was considering the question. 

“I don’t see why not, so long as we don’t leave the property.”

Sam’s heart started beating harder against his sternum. “Really? Just the two of us?”

Consternation furrowed the space between Bumblebee’s eyebrows. “No, that would be too great a risk. You could join Cliff and me on patrol tomorrow, if you’d like.”

Although Sam was disappointed that he couldn’t spend time alone with Bumblebee, going on patrol was a kick-ass consolation prize. He grinned up at him, “I can’t wait. When?”

The corner of Bumblebee’s mouth curled up in a pleased half-smile. Obviously, he shared Sam’s sentiment completely. “Eight o’clock?”

“You say that like it’s a question. Is that when you’re scheduled to go?”

Bumblebee rolled his eyes, reaching down to pinch Sam’s nipple through his shirt. Sam yelped loudly, hand flying up to rub the stinging flesh.

“We patrol the perimeter four times a day. If eight o’clock didn’t suit you, you can join us at one of the other times.” He explained wryly.

“Ouch, Bumblebee.” Sam complained, “That hurt.”

Bumblebee’s expression was mischievous. He leaned down so that he could purr into Sam’s ear, “The correct response would be _thank-you, sir, may I have another?”_

Sam laughed loudly, dropping his hand back down to rest against his abdomen. “You’ve been watching way too much porn. Honestly, did I get saddled with the most insatiable one of you or what?”

Bumblebee chuckled, shaking his head. “Not at all. Hot Rod’s the worst by far.”

Something about his tone struck Sam as odd. It was amused, and knowing, and far too familiar. Sam turned his head, looking up at the holoform.

“What do you mean by that?” Sam was watching him closely, which is how he noticed the fissure of tension flit across his face. It caused his heart to trip into double-rhythm, and he pushed up onto an elbow. “Bumblebee?”

The look on the holoform’s face wasn’t guilty, not exactly, but it was wary and uncertain. Sam narrowed his eyes at him. “I asked you a question.”

Bumblebee hesitated. “It’s difficult to explain. There are some things that don’t translate easily from my culture to yours.”

Sam pushed into a sitting position, staring hard at the holoform now. “Did you— were you and Hot Rod _intimate_ with one another?”

Bumblebee winced at the question, and that was all the confirmation that Sam needed.

“Are you _shitting_ me? Why didn’t you say anything?” He demanded.

“Sam, please. It wasn’t a secret, but I didn’t want to upset you.”

His words caused an intense swell of emotion. There was anger and jealousy and possessiveness, which were all mixed up together with an ample dose of betrayal. Somewhere, in the furthest reaches of the higher cognitive centers of his brain, Sam knew that his feelings were misplaced—after all, Bumblebee had every right to be intimate with whomever he chose, prior to their relationship.

That knowledge did absolutely nothing to assuage the jealous anger that he felt. 

“You didn’t want to upset me?” Sam repeated, sarcastically, “Well, mission failed. _Spectacularly_.”

Bumblebee’s expression was grim, frustrated even, as though the situation was rapidly getting out of hand and he wasn’t sure what to do about it. Sam narrowed his eyes at him.

“You should have told me.”

Bumblebee sighed, shaking his head.

“It wasn’t a secret.” He reiterated, firmly, “I would have told you everything after you came to understand more about our culture. For all that we have adopted human conventions and social norms, our romantic and intimate entanglements are different than your own.”

Sam stared at the holoform in a mixture of incredulity and anger. “I had the right to know about your past when we bonded. Hot Rod is my friend!”

“It was my past, Sam. I have the right to decide when and how my story is shared.” Bumblebee replied, coolly.

“ _You_ had the right to decide?” Sam snapped, working himself up into a temper, “Like when you asked me for every sordid detail about my relationship with Mikaela?”

Bumblebee’s expression was disapproving. “I was in your head, Sam. I told you that if anything I did, or said, made you uncomfortable, I would stop. You weren’t.”

Sam pushed away from the holoform, moving to sit with his back against the arm of the couch.

“Fine.” He replied, words clipped and tight, “Are you going to tell me or not?”

Bumblebee sighed in frustration. “Of course I’ll tell you. What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

The holoform nodded slowly, considerately.

“First I must explain more about Cybertronian social bonding. What do you know about our romantic relationships?”

Sam frowned, thrown off balance by Bumblebee’s easy acquiescence. “Not very much. Prowl said that he and Jazz were romantic partners, but they were the exception and not the norm.”

“That’s correct. Cybertronians have what humans would call polyamorous or polygamous relationships, although that’s an inadequate comparison.”

Sam nodded slowly, “Okay. I’m listening.”

Bumblebee seemed to consider him for a long time. Eventually he sighed, shaking his head. “I’m probably not the most well suited to explain this, but I’ll do my best. For mechanoids not in a spark-bond, intimacy and romance are two very distinct concepts.”

Sam rolled his eyes, folding his arms over his chest. “That’s true for my people, too.”

Bumblebee chuckled, his expression wry.

“People often claim so, but that is rarely the case. Mechanoids do not have an endocrine system to complicate matters of intimacy and romance.” 

Sam decided not to push back on that. Instead, he waved his hand in a permissive gesture, bidding Bumblebee to continue. The holoform hesitated, as though carefully choosing his words.

“Cybertronians have fluid romantic relationships that are structured around two or more committed partners. These mecha form the “core” of a family unit or collective, for lack of better terms. One or more members of the collective may court another mechanoid. If their proposal is accepted, then the newcomer will join their family unit.”

Sam listened closely, his head tipped to the side as he took in what Bumblebee was saying.

“Are you describing a harem?”

“No.” Bumblebee replied firmly, “A harem includes one polygamous person with multiple mates. Those mates have no romantic or intimate entanglements with each other. In theory, at least.”

“But Cybertronians do.” Sam surmised slowly.

“That’s right.”

“So what happens when someone new joins a group?”

Bumblebee rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “It varies widely. Sometimes they may be intimate with everyone in the romantic collective, other times they may only be interested in pursuing an intimate relationship with one of them.”

“And everyone’s fine with that?” Sam asked.

“They are.” Bumblebee agreed. “Any expression of intimacy or romance within a collective is permissible.”

Sam tried to wrap his brain around what he was hearing. “So a newcomer could have an intimate and romantic relationship with everyone inside the collective or only one of them?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Bumblebee confirmed, seemingly encouraged by Sam’s question, “It can get very complicated, especially with larger collectives. However, it is also understood that newcomers aren’t necessarily permanent fixtures. They come and go as their lives require.”

Sam frowned faintly. “What if they want to stay?”

“If a newcomer is committed to the collective, they would petition to stay as a core member. It’s no small matter to do so.”

Sam mulled over his words for a long moment, trying to shore up the courage to ask the question at the forefront of his mind. Bumblebee waited him out, patient and accepting. Finally, Sam blew out a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and asked, simply, “So were you and Hot Rod in a collective together?”

“No.” Bumblebee replied. He moved closer to Sam, his expression serious and earnest. “I told you that intimacy and romance are two separate concepts for us. It is common for close friends to share charge as an expression of mutual affection. It has nothing to do with romantic feelings.”

Sam frowned faintly, trying to understand. “So sharing charge is a way to… what? Show someone how much they mean to you?”

“Yes.” Bumblebee agreed.

Sam’s frown deepened. “Can I ask… I mean—“

“You can ask me whatever you want, Sam.” Bumblebee assured him, “I won’t be offended by the question.”

“Listen, my earlier freak-out aside, you don’t owe me any specifics.” Sam managed, stumbling over himself, “I was taken by surprise, but your past is—“

Bumblebee’s mental presence brushed against his mind. Sam could feel his bonded’s amusement, his affection, his relief. The touch quieted Sam’s rambling reply, and Bumblebee smiled at him in response.

“I shared charge for the first time with Cliffjumper when we were assigned to the Temple Simfur. He is my oldest and dearest friend. I met Hot Rod shortly thereafter, but it took a great deal longer before we were close enough to express our affection that way.” Bumblebee’s voice became wry as he added, “Hot Rod is something of an acquired taste.”

Sam laughed softly. It was true that Bumblebee and Hot Rod had very different personalities. 

“It happened periodically over the years, usually when we were reunited after a long time apart. As you know, our duties often had us separated by great distances, especially in the later part of the war.”

“Did you ever… was there ever anyone else?”

“Sideswipe, for a brief time.” Bumblebee replied.

Sam’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. “ _Sideswipe?”_

“Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were different, before the war. Less acerbic, less jaded, less prone to outbursts of temper. Sideswipe and I became close in the vorns after Tyger Pax. We were often sent into the field together.”

“What changed?” Sam asked softly.

“Sunstreaker lost contact with his platoon commander. He was presumed to have been killed-in-action or to have defected to the Decepticons. Sideswipe took his loss very hard.”

Sam was silent for a long while, his heart aching for Sideswipe. He had only been separated from Bumblebee for two years, and during that time, he had the comfort of knowing his bonded was still alive. Sideswipe would have lived with his grief and uncertainty for thousands of years, searching and hoping, only to be disappointed time and time again. Sam couldn’t even imagine the anguish that he must have suffered.

Bumblebee let him mull over his thoughts in silence. Eventually, the holoform moved across the couch until their legs pressed together. “Do you have any other questions?”

Sam pulled his thoughts away from Sideswipe and Sunstreaker with a concerted effort. He looked up at the holoform, and asked, hesitantly, “Were you ever in a collective?”

“No. Not only was I too young, but I had no desire to do so.”

That caught Sam by surprise. “What do you mean too young?”

“It is unusual for anyone my age to be a part of a collective. Occasionally, a younger mechanoid might join if they are attracted to a particular member of the group, but those attachments are usually short-lived.”

Sam frowned. “Why?”

“It’s just the way of things. Younger mechanoids tend to be more rambunctious, prone to capriciousness and wanderlust. It’s not a combination that holds appeal to most collectives, and therefore, very few would court a younger mechanoid.”

Sam nodded slowly, digesting what he had been told. It was certainly a different social structure than what he was used too, but there was nothing deviant or repulsive about it. It was just foreign to him, as he was sure human societal customs were foreign to the Autobots. Eventually, he took a deep breath, steeling himself.

“I have one more question, and then I promise not to ask anything else about it.”

Bumblebee’s expression softened. “You can ask me whatever you wish. I already told you, this wasn’t a secret.”

Sam forced himself to look Bumblebee in the eye. “When was the last time you shared charge with any of them?”

Bumblebee looked unsurprised by his question. He reached out a hand to trail the tips of his fingers down Sam’s arm. His voice, when he replied, was sincere. “Long before I ever came to Earth.”

Sam was taken aback by his response. “Really? You didn’t share charge, not even when they first arrived?”

“No.” Bumblebee replied firmly, “Sideswipe and I haven’t been close in a long time. Then, when Cliffjumper and Hot Rod arrived, I had no desire to share charge with either of them.”

Sam’s heart felt too big for his chest, like it couldn’t possibly fit inside his ribs.

“Why not?” He managed to ask.

Bumblebee’s features softened, gentling in some tangible way. “You know why not.” 

Sam’s eyes roved desperately over the holoform’s face. He _did_ know why—it was the same reason that he hadn’t felt the faintest flicker of attraction for any of the women on base, even months after he and Mikaela had broken up. Sam hadn’t wanted anyone but Bumblebee, even before he was fully aware of his attraction.

Sam made a strangled sound in his throat, throwing himself at the holoform. They kissed, quick and messy and urgent, as Sam moved to straddle his lap. He ran his fingers through Bumblebee’s hair, tightening his grip and baring the column of his throat. Sam kissed down the length of his neck, rocking his groin against Bumblebee’s belly.

“Clothes, off.” He panted against his skin.

Bumblebee groaned softly. “I have to relieve Arcee in half an hour.”

“Then you’d better hurry up.” Sam ground out. His tone brooked no argument.

Sam could feel the moment that Bumblebee’s resolve hardened, his mental presence becoming laser-focused and determined. The holoform grabbed Sam’s shirt, pulling it off over his head. Then he surged forward, grasping the sides of Sam’s face, and began kissing him back. There was nothing gentle about it—it was messy, bruising, and urgent.

Sam broke away first, gasping. Bumblebee’s hands flew to Sam’s pants, fumbling with his fly.

“Pit-blasted, useless thing.” He growled, yanking it open and then pulling down the zipper, “Push up a little.”

Sam obliged him, and with some maneuvering, they managed to get his pants and boxers off. When he was naked, he climbed back onto Bumblebee’s lap, straddling him on his knees.

“You next.” Sam demanded, fisting his hands in the holoform’s short hair. He ducked down, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the Bumblebee’s jaw. Bumblebee stilled, holding Sam by his hips, and then a moment later, the simulated clothing turned to simulated skin. Sam pressed against him, chest to chest, groin to groin.

“I am so stupid in love with you.” He groaned, dropping one hand to trace the arch of the holoform’s throat. He could feel Bumblebee’s reply, in the _thrum_ of emotion across their bond.

Bumblebee’s hand fell down to the hard line of Sam’s cock. He stroked him lazily from crown to root, “How do you want it?”

“I want you to fuck me, right here. Just like this.” He panted, squirming, “Now.”

Bumblebee chuckled at him. “You’re certainly getting more assertive.”

“I guess I’m a pushy bottom, who knew?” Sam managed, his words breaking off with a strangled moan as Bumblebee swirled a thumb over the head of his cock.

“No comment.” Bumblebee replied dryly, sub-spacing a bottle of lubricant. Sam watched as he opened the cap, pouring a generous amount into his hand. “It’ll be harder to prepare you this way. Are you certain?”

“I swear to God, Bumblebee, shut up and fuck me.” Sam gritted out.

Bumblebee’s eyes went dark at that, his mental presence _undulating_ with a predatory edge. A moment later, Sam felt an oiled finger slide down his ass to press against the tight ring of muscle. Bumblebee circled the pert flesh, rubbing gently, before he pressed one finger inside. Sam groaned out the breath that he’d been holding, spreading his knees further apart.

The holoform was quick but mindful in his ministrations. He pressed in deeper, massaging Sam’s prostate with each stab of his finger. He added more lube and another finger, picking up the pace as Sam’s body relaxed for him. It was not long before Bumblebee pulled away, wiping his hand on Sam’s discarded shirt.

“Go on, then. You’re in charge tonight.”

Sam knew that he was referring to the fact that Sam was on top, but the idea rather appealed to him in general at the moment. He felt alive and in control, as though every nerve ending in his body was on fire. It was a heady, powerful thing.

Sam reached between them, grasping Bumblebee’s cock. He lined up and sank down, slowly and carefully, alert for any pain or discomfort. Bumblebee had been thorough, however, and soon Sam was fully impaled by the holoform’s erection. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, panting through his mouth. This was a new kind of intense, different than missionary had been. After he regained a bit of his composure, Sam began to move. He ground his hips in little circles at first, lifting up only an inch or two before sinking back down. He raised his hands to Bumblebee’s shoulders, steadying himself as he moved.

The next time that Sam sank down on Bumblebee’s cock, the holoform lifted up his hips to meet him. Sam made a strangled sound as the thrust hit him squarely in prostate, sending liquid pleasure straight up his spine. They quickly established a rhythm, moving together in perfect coordination. Bumblebee grasped Sam’s hips, holding him steady as he thrust up to meet him. Sam could feel his orgasm building from his fingers to his toes, hot pleasure ratcheting higher with every thrust.

“I can’t believe you’re mine.” Sam panted. His grip on Bumblebee’s shoulders would have been bruising, had the holoform been human. “All mine.”

Bumblebee groaned, his head falling back against the couch.

“All yours.” He agreed roughly.

“I’m close.” Sam panted, head pitching forward and eyes squeezed shut, “Touch me. Please, touch me.”

Bumblebee obliged him, one hand dropping down to grasp his weeping erection. The holoform stroked him in time with their thrusts, his grip slick and firm and warm. Sam pressed his forehead into the crook of Bumblebee’s shoulder, leaning as far into their bond-space as he could. This closely intertwined, they were indistinguishable from one another—Sam was in Bumblebee’s mind, and Bumblebee was in Sam’s. It was impossible to separate their thoughts, to parse out who was feeling what. It was a blur of physical pleasure, building charge, possessiveness, and devotion. He was so distracted by their shared experience that his orgasm took him completely by surprise. He moaned out his pleasure against simulated skin, shuddering in Bumblebee’s embrace.

It took a long time for Sam to come back to himself. Eventually, Bumblebee _nudged_ against him regretfully. He blinked open his eyes to find that he was curled against Bumblebee’s chest, his head tucked against the holoform’s neck. Bumblebee helped him off his lap, and then the holoform strode into the bathroom to retrieve a wet cloth. He returned a moment later, wiping away all traces of the tacky mess that clung to Sam’s belly. Sam watched him through half-lidded eyes, reclining against the sofa. Bumblebee picked up Sam’s dirty clothes, and tossed them into the hamper with the facecloth. The corner of Sam’s mouth curled up in a smile as Bumblebee went to the kitchenette next, filling a tall glass with tap water.

“You’re a real mother hen, do you know that?” He asked, amusedly.

Bumblebee shot him a _look_. “I’m allowed to fuss. I’m still your guardian, you know.”

Sam accepted the glass with a dry laugh. “So does that count as jealousy sex? Or make-up sex?”

Bumblebee rolled his eyes, but there was a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “There’s no reason we can’t cross-list. It would make for a more comprehensive index.”

“Capital idea, my man.” Sam grinned, taking a sip of water.

“I have to go, I’m running late as it is. Do you need anything?”

Sam glanced at the clock. It was 7:58 PM. He looked back at the holoform, shaking his head. “No, I’m good. What time is your second patrol? I’m gonna want to sleep in tomorrow morning.”

“Two o’clock.”

“What time is the debriefing?”

“It’s scheduled for one o’clock.”

“That’s no good, then. Ultra Magnus kept us until three-thirty today. Is the third patrol at eight?”

“It is.” Bumblebee agreed, leaning over to press a chaste kiss against the top of Sam’s head.

“I’ll join you then.” Sam said, smiling. “Have a good shift. Tell Arcee I said hello.”

“I will. Have a good evening, Sam.”

The holoform’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, and then he was gone. Sam reached out, brushing against the winter-white glow at the edge of his mind in farewell. He sat there a moment longer, basking in the afterglow, until reality inevitably—unwelcomingly—came back to him. He was sweaty, his legs burned from exertion, and he was definitely going to be sore tomorrow. Sam pushed himself to his feet, wandering into the bathroom. With any luck, a hot shower would soothe away the worst of it.

* * *

Sam was in the office by ten o’clock the next morning, congratulating himself on his professionalism. It had been a concerted effort to haul his ass out of bed, but he’d managed it. He spent the next few hours buried in the readings that Optimus had assigned him. They had moved on from political ideologies to jurisprudence. He recognized Ultra Magnus’ name on the first file, and he braced himself for a slog. To his surprise, however, the reading was enjoyable. It lacked the dense verbiage of some of the previous assignments, and Sam was able to finish in under an hour. He glanced down at the legal pad in front of him. He had jotted down a dozen questions for Optimus, but Sam thought he would try to catch Ultra Magnus after the debriefing. Maybe Sam’s interest in his work would make up for his rudeness at yesterday’s meeting.

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud knock on the door. He glanced up in surprise to see Luis step into the office, an easygoing smile on his face and a paper bag in his hand.

“I come bearing gifts.” He said, stepping forward to drop the bag onto Sam’s desk.

“Oh my God, you didn’t.” Sam managed, opening the bag. The smell of grilled beef and French fries hit him square in the face, and he groaned in appreciation. “You are a king among men.”

Luis laughed, pulling out one of the chairs in front of Sam’s desk, and sitting down with a wave of his hand. “I was in town anyway. Thought you might like to join me for a ‘welcome back to civilization’ lunch.”

Sam pulled one of the Knock Out burgers and package of fries out of the bag, handing it across the desk to him. He unwrapped the foil on his burger next, pulling off the thick tomato slice and throwing it in the trash. He put the bun back on the burger and took a bite, the taste of grease and salt flooding his mouth.

“Oh my God.” Sam moaned.

Luis laughed at him, stuffing some French fries into his mouth, “Yeah, Diego Garcia might have some of the best Asian cuisine I’ve even eaten, but _no one_ out-burgers the United States of America.”

Sam nodded his agreement, taking another bite of the hamburger. They ate in companionable silence, speaking only to ask for more napkins or to pass the ketchup. It wasn’t until Sam started in on his fries that he glanced up to see Luis sprawled back in his chair, staring at his burger in open appreciation. Sam huffed a quiet laugh, taken aback by how easy their friendship had become. It was like Miles and Leo and Killian had been distilled down into one person—one sarcastic, funny, foul-mouthed person. The thought warmed Sam to his core.

“What’re you doing tonight?” Sam asked, apropos of nothing.

Luis glanced up at him in surprise. “Not a damn thing. Why?”

“Want to go for a drive? Bumblebee and I are going on patrol at eight.”

Luis seemed to consider the offer for about half a second, and then he tossed Sam an easy grin. “Mi amigo, I have been dying to see the inside of that Camaro for weeks. Count me in.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Thanks for all of your encouragement and support. I would have stopped writing this story 200k words ago if it weren't for all of you. This is the best freaking fandom ever! :)

Sam settled into a seat at the conference table. Although he was almost ten minutes early for the debriefing, there were already a number of people milling about the room. They stood or sat in small groups, chatting amiably with one another. Sam watched them surreptitiously as he took a notebook and pen out of his bag. They were all dressed in comfortable-looking business attire, well groomed and presentable. He recognized Jennifer from Human Resources and Kevin from Finance, both of whom had been at yesterday’s meeting.

To his surprise, Agent Parker walked into the room shortly after he arrived. The older man took a seat in a chair near the door, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he sat down. Although his posture was relaxed, Sam noticed the way that his eyes trailed over the room. Sam was still staring at him when the older man glanced in his direction. He nodded when they made eye contact, which made Sam flush with embarrassment, and then he turned his attention to the leather padfolio he held in his lap.

At five minutes to the hour, the conference room doors swung open and Bill Fowler, Ultra Magnus and, to Sam’s surprise, Ratchet walked into the room. Bill found a seat against the wall as Ultra Magnus made his way to the podium. Sam looked from the City Commander to Ratchet, who stood near the back of the room, arms folded over his chest. Sam _nudged_ at him through their bond, and the holoform glanced in his direction. Sam gave him a pointed look and Ratchet raised his shoulder in a shrug.

 _//I’m the Chief Medical Officer.//_ He said, as though that answered Sam’s question.

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes, turning his attention back towards the front of the room. Ultra Magnus had powered on the projector, and the title slide of a PowerPoint presentation was displayed on the screen. Sam reflexively reinforced his firewalls as he bit down a groan of dismay.

_Fiscal Responsibility._

The debriefing that followed was no better than the one the day before, except it was forty minutes shorter. Sam sat through the presentation about budgeting, followed by a round-table discussion from each of the department heads. Evidentially, Legal was going to need two more associates to complete a patent application by Optimus’ deadline, and Medical wanted to post a job advertisement for a new physician. The one bright point in the entire meeting was when Ultra Magnus outlined the preparations that were underway for a visit from the Canadian Ambassador. The delegation was expected at the end of May, which gave them three weeks to prepare. 

When Ultra Magnus called the meeting to a close, Sam stood up from the table. He made his way to the front of the room, stepping around two people from Logistics whose names Sam couldn’t remember. The City Commander was speaking with Bill Fowler, and both of them turned to look at Sam as he approached.

“Sorry.” He apologized, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Bill waved his words away, “It’s fine, we were finished anyway. You getting on okay?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Sam replied, shifting his weight from foot to foot at the older man’s sudden scrutiny, “Everyone’s been really nice.”

“Glad to hear it.” Bill said, an amused glint in his eye, “If you’ll excuse me, I have a mountain of paperwork to finish. Sam, Ultra Magnus.”

The older man nodded to each of them in turn, before turning on his heel and walking away. Sam watched his receding back for a long moment, and then he looked at Ultra Magnus. The holoform was watching him with an air of expectation.

“Yes, Sam?”

Sam hesitated, uncertain how to broach the subject. “Do you have a minute?”

Ultra Magnus’ expression wasn’t aloof, not exactly, but he canted his head to the side and gave Sam a piercing look. “I can make some time. What do you need?” 

Sam glanced down at the legal pad that he held in his hands. It contained the notes and questions that he had jotted down as he read the file on jurisprudence. After a moment, he looked back up at the holoform. “I’m not sure if you know this, but Optimus has me reading data files on Cybertron. Histories, mostly, but there’s some political and religious stuff in there too.”

Ultra Magnus’ expression changed, warming slightly with good humor. 

“Ahh, yes. I am aware. I assisted Prime in selecting some materials for you.” 

“Oh, I guess that makes sense. Well, I just finished reading your research on legal theory, and I have some questions.” Sam said, extending the notepad towards him. The holoform glanced down, eyes roving over the page. His expression was reserved but considerate as he folded his arms, leaning against the conference table.

“Alright, what would you like to know?” Ultra Magnus asked.

Sam hesitated before asking the foremost question on his mind. “How many legal theories guided the practice of law on Cybertron?”

“Four, not including Kleo Maxima’s interpretation of neo-positivism.”

Sam was well aware of Ultra Magnus’ opinion of Kleo Maxima’s interpretation of legal theory. He glanced down at the notepad again, and asked the next question on the list. Rather than answering him directly, Ultra Magnus turned the question around on him, forcing Sam to recall what he had read. The holoform nodded minutely as Sam hesitantly replied, before using leading questions to guide Sam’s understanding of the material. When Sam slipped up, confusing one legal theory for another, Ultra Magnus patiently corrected him.

They had been talking for the better part of twenty minutes when the doors to the conference room swung open. Sam glanced over to see three people about to make their way into the room. As soon as the first man saw them, he stopped in his tracks and apologized, before stepping back into the lobby and shutting the door.

“The conference room is booked for a Finance meeting in ten minutes. We should vacate the premises so they may prepare.” Ultra Magnus rumbled, looking back at Sam, “If you are amenable, we can continue this discussion on the way to Munitions.”

Sam glanced at his watch. It was almost three o’clock, time for his training session with Jazz.

“Yeah, definitely. Thanks.”

Ultra Magnus didn’t smile, but his expression was close enough to be a kissing cousin.

“Do you need to tend to your physical needs before we go?” He asked, matter-of-factly.

It took Sam a split second to realize what he was asking. He reflexively checked his firewalls for a second time—intact, thank God—and shook his head.

“No, thank-you. I’m good.”

Sam slung his messenger bag over his shoulder, and then they made their way out of the conference room together. There was a sizable group of people waiting in the lobby, most of whom were holding stacks of files. Ultra Magnus nodded to them as he passed, making his way across the reception area and out into the ground bridge hangar. Sam followed at his side, grasping the strap of his messenger bag with both hands. They were almost to the Munitions entrance when the holoform glanced sidelong at him.

“What else did you wish to know?”

Sam considered his words before he replied. “Does Cybertron have the equivalent of the legislative, executive, and judicial branches of government?”

“Yes and no.” Ultra Magnus answered. “As you know, the Senate was the ruling body on Cybertron. They were roughly equivalent to the Congress of the United States. The Prime and the Lord High Protector together held the highest seat of authority, similar the President.”

“What about the rest of the executive branch?” Sam asked curiously.

“What you conceive of as the executive branch—that is, the departments and agencies responsible for enforcing law and order—were separate from the Cybertronian Senate. They were commanded directly by the Lord High Protector, and occasionally, by the Prime.”

Sam frowned faintly. “I don’t understand. If the executive branch was separate from the Senate, how were they elected? And how were they held accountable?”

A grimace twisted Ultra Magnus’ mouth. “The short answer is that they weren’t. It was common for positions to be filled at the discretion of the Lord High Protector, the Prime, or even prominent members of the Senate. Any issues of integrity and accountability were dealt with behind closed doors.”

“That sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.” Sam replied without thinking.

Ultra Magnus’ expression shuttered, all emotion wiped clean off his face.

“As you know, it was.”

Sam winced at his tactlessness. In an effort to salvage their conversation, Sam switched topics. “What about the judicial branch?”

“The judicial branch was spearheaded by the Prime, who handed down precedents to the Magistrates.”

“No separation of church and state, huh?” Sam asked dryly.

“No, although the code of Primus had little effect on the development of our laws.”

Sam considered this for a long while. He knew there was a great deal of discussion around the topic of legislation and morality. Although most people assumed that the two concepts were indistinguishable from one another, human history was rife with examples of immoral practices written into law. The persecution of the Jewish people during the holocaust, Jim Crow laws in the United States, and other discriminatory policies against minority groups around the world could attest to it.

“What do you mean that the code of Primus had little effect on the development of law?” Sam asked, eventually.

The holoform raised his shoulder in a shrug. “The code of Primus predates our enslavement by the Quintessons. After they were driven off world by the Great Revolt, it was necessary to establish a new system of government. The Senate and the caste-system were supposed to be a temporary solution.”

Sam grimaced. “I think I’ve heard this one before.” 

“Indeed.” Ultra Magnus rumbled darkly, “The transitional government was entrusted to write the laws that would protect and bind our society for generations. In doing so, however, they also included provisions to further their own self-interests. In this case, the securement of position and authority.”

“And the code of Primus?”

“There were laws written to allow for prayer, to condemn the destruction of holy relics, and to sanctify days of worship.” Ultra Magnus continued, “But ultimately, they served to solidify the power of the ruling caste.”

“And to pacify or subjugate the lower castes.” Sam surmised.

The holoform glanced sidelong at him in surprise. “That is an astute deduction.”

Sam lifted his shoulders in a shrug. Based on what he knew about the corruption of the Senate during the First and Second Golden Ages, it wasn’t exactly a difficult leap to make. The conversation trailed off after that, both of them content to walk in introspective silence. When they turned the corner towards the Autobot’s hangar, the holoform disappeared. Ultra Magnus’ alt mode was parked near the opposite tunnel, its engine idly loudly in the cavernous space. When Sam stepped fully into the room, the armored transport truck flashed its high beams at him.

The hangar was busier today than yesterday. Jazz and Arcee stood together near the gantry, deep in conversation. Ratchet stood in the alcove that Sam had mentally dubbed the medical bay, servos deep inside the plating of Hot Rod’s leg strut. The cavalier lay reclined on a berth, supine and quiet. The sight of Hot Rod gave Sam a strange twist, but the conversation with Bumblebee the night before had soothed away most of his conflicted feelings. 

Ratchet glanced up as Sam approached. “I will need a minute before we can begin.”

Sam‘s stomach flip-flopped with anxiety at Ratchet’s serious tone.

“Everything alright?” He asked.

“Right as rain, Sammy.” Hot Rod said cheerfully, “He’s just being a fussbudget.”

“Don’t call me that.” Sam replied automatically, at the same time that Ratchet ex-vented a sharp snort.

“You won’t be right as rain if these piston rings give out during battle. You’ll be dead.” He returned flatly.

Hot Rod _chirruped_ something at the medic, whose expression darkened in response. A moment later, the cavalier jerked on the berth, his vocoder giving a sharp squeal of static before it clicked, resetting itself.

“My apologies. An accident, I’m sure.” Ratchet drawled.

Hot Rod looked at the medic as though he had just kicked his puppy, equally shocked and indignant. Ratchet seemed entirely unaffected by the heat of Roddy’s gaze.

“Afternoon, Hoss.” Jazz greeted as he strolled across the hangar, “How’re you feeling today?”

Sam turned to look at the second-in-command, who was grinning down at him. Arcee trailed behind him, her long arms folded loosely over her chassis. Sam had not spent much time with the scout, who seemed to avoid humans whenever possible. She was short but lithe, with blue paneling and a dark gray midriff. Her azure optics were set in a slender, feminine face.

Sam’s gaze flicked back to Jazz. “Uh, good. Thanks for asking.”

“Ready for round two?” Jazz asked, clapping his servos together.

“Yeah, definitely.” Sam agreed.

Jazz tipped his helm meaningfully towards Arcee. “I asked my girl here to observe your training today. She’ll be joining us in the future.”

Arcee ex-vented an unimpressed snort, warbling something in Jazz’s direction. Ratchet glanced over at her, disapproval on his face, and _tickety-beeped_ something in reply. Arcee returned his gaze for a long moment, before she sighed dramatically and looked down at Sam.

“My apologies, no offense was intended.” She said dryly.

It took Sam a moment to realize that she was referring to the fact she had spoken in Cybertronian, rather than English. Sam looked from Arcee to Jazz and back again, suddenly uncomfortable.

“You don’t have to speak English, if you don’t want to.” He replied with forced levity, “Just don’t expect me to answer if you ask me a question. My accent’s terrible.”

The femme didn’t respond to his attempt at humor, her expression cool and impassive. The awkwardness lasted only a moment, and then Jazz clapped his servo down on Arcee’s shoulder, giving her a friendly shake.

“Arcee has advanced electronic warfare protocols.” He said cheerfully, “She’ll be working with us on pen-testing when you get there.”

“Electronic warfare?” Sam asked apprehensively, as Arcee slapped Jazz’s servo away. The second-in-command grinned at her, evidentially unoffended by her actions. The femme rolled her optics, turning to pin Sam with a look.

“It’s the use of electromagnetic fields for defense and attack.” She explained. Despite her earlier standoffishness, her voice was patient and to-the-point.

“I don’t have electromagnetic fields.” Sam replied, slowly.

“As a matter of fact, you do.” Ratchet said, straightening up and wiping his servos on a square of metalmesh. He directed his next words to Hot Rod, “You can close up now.”

The cavalier made a relieved sound, pushing himself into a sitting position as the plates on his leg strut slid back into place. He bent his knee experimentally, before flashing a cheeky grin at Ratchet.

“Thanks, Doc. Good as new.” He said, hopping off the berth.

Ratchet snorted, turning his attention back to Sam, “All living creatures have an electromagnetic field. Yours are smaller and less sophisticated than our own, but they exist.”

The medic made his way out of the alcove, lowering into a crouch and extending a servo towards him. As soon as Sam had climbed onto the proffered palm, Ratchet curled him against his broad chest. The smooth, chartreuse plates were warm to the touch, vibrating faintly with the inner workings of the medic’s body. Ratchet carried him across the hangar and deposited him on the nearest berth. As the medic moved away, Sam sat cross-legged near the edge of the metal platform 

“Okay, what now?” Sam asked, resting his hands on his knees.

“Just the same as yesterday. Drop ‘em.” Jazz replied, approaching the berth with Arcee at his side. The lithe scout was looking at Jazz, her arms crossed over her chest. At Jazz’s raised brow ridge, Sam blew out a slow breath and released his hold on his firewalls. When he turned his attention towards the neural-network, he recognized all of the nearby signatures, except one. He had never _seen_ Arcee before, and she glittered like a gemstone against the firmament. When he looked closely, Sam could make out the occasional flash of color, reds and blues and white, as though she were refracting a light that did not exist.

Sam felt a gentle _thrum_ of amusement, though he could not say where it had come from. He glanced up, meeting her optics, which were appreciably warmer than they had been.

“You’re beautiful.” He breathed.

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Sam.” Arcee replied dryly.

“Alright, Sam-my-man, you know what to do.” Jazz said, bringing them back to the matter at hand.

He nodded faintly, turning his attention back towards the neural-network. Jazz was already moving away, gliding across the darkness like a will-o-wisp over the water. His focus narrowed down to the indigo-colored glow in front of him as he pushed himself to catch up. Unlike yesterday, however, Jazz wasn’t content to go slowly and telegraph his intentions. The second-in-command moved quickly, and Sam struggled to keep up with him. When Jazz flitted abruptly away, Sam took the turn too wide, sending him into a controlled slide. He narrowed his eyes in concentration, digging in and _kicking off_ , chasing after the receding glow.

“Are you even breaking a sweat right now?” Sam managed through gritted teeth. He could feel the telltale ache already beginning to bloom between his temples.

“Nope.” Jazz replied cheerfully.

Sam bit back his scathing reply, but of course, Jazz was inside of his head. The saboteur’s answering grin was sharp.

“You can do better than that. Try again.”

Sam sucked in a harsh breath, focusing all of his attention on catching up with the second-in-command. When Sam neared him again, Jazz abruptly vanished. One moment he was there, and then he was gone. Sam slowed, searching for the familiar signature. A few seconds later, it appeared a fair distance behind him. Sam narrowed his eyes up at the saboteur.

“So that’s the way it’s going to be, huh?”

“Yep.”

“I think I’m going to hate you before this is all over.” Sam muttered, taking off towards the indigo-colored glow again.

“If you don’t, then I’m not doing it right.” Jazz replied blithely.

Unlike the day before, when Jazz had allowed Sam to catch him as a means of bolstering his confidence, the second-in-command was making him work for it. There was perspiration beading at his hairline and dampening his armpits by the time that he got close enough to brush against the edges of Jazz’s signature.

Sam’s breath groaned out of him, his head falling into his hands.

“You’re not terrible at this.” Arcee remarked, by way of encouragement.

“Thanks.” Sam replied, leveling a flat look at her through his fingers.

“Don’t be so dramatic. Drink this.” Ratchet said. Sam raised his head to see the medic’s holoform crouched beside him, a familiar bottle in his hands. Sam accepted it with a grunt, twisting off the cap and taking a long drink. The sweetened beverage was cool and refreshing, and he was immediately thankful for it. Ratchet watched him for a long moment, a frown playing at his mouth. A moment later, his holoform subspaced a ration bar and handed it to him. “Eat.”

Sam didn’t bothering arguing. He pulled open the package with both hands, breaking off pieces of the ration bar and popping them into his mouth. He chewed mechanically, his pulse throbbing in his temples the entire time. He was almost finished the ration bar when he heard the sound of engines reverberating down the tunnel. He leaned forward in time to see the flash of headlights along the cement walls, and then Bumblebee and Cliffjumper drove into the hangar. The two scouts transformed in a complicated blur of moving metal and machinery, and then they were standing side-by-side in their bipedal modes.

“Hey.” Sam said around a mouthful of oatmeal, raisins, and chocolate, “How was patrol?”

“It was good.” Bumblebee replied, stepping close to the berth. Arcee nodded at him, terse and perfunctory, and his guardian chirped back at her in greeting. Bee leaned forward, running the tip of one digit down the length of Sam’s back, “I understand you are making progress.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but otherwise he didn’t reply. He finished the last of the ration bar, setting the wrapper on the berth and wiping his hands on his pants. Jazz glanced at Ratchet and, when there was no objection from the medic, he turned to look down at Sam.

“Ready?”

Sam raised his arms above his head, stretching his back. “Yeah, sure. Let’s do it.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Jazz’s signature melted into the fabric of the neural-network. Sam sighed. He was learning to loathe hide-n-seek.

“Any hints today?” Sam asked, already knowing the answer.

“Nope. Better get to it, if you don’t find me in ten minutes you’ll have to make up for it tomorrow.”

Sam narrowed his eyes, focusing all of his concentration on the darkness around him. He doubted that Jazz would move much further than he was capable of looking in ten minutes, so Sam kept the search radius tight. Once or twice he thought he noticed the telltale shimmer of an egress filter, but it was gone again a moment later. Sam frowned faintly, stretching his awareness as far as he could, but the neural-net was empty.

“How long?” He asked, wiping away the sweat that was stinging his eyes.

“Seven minutes.” Jazz replied, “Tick-tock.”

Sam’s frown deepened, and he focused everything that he had towards the vast expanse around him. Once again, he thought he noticed a shimmer in the darkness, but it was gone as soon as he approached.

All at once, something occurred to him. Sam glanced up at the saboteur, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Are you _moving_?”

His question was met with a directionless swell of _amusement_ and _surprise_. Hot Rod shoved Cliffjumper enthusiastically, whistling something at him in Cybertronian. The red and black mechanoid shook his helm, but his expression was tolerantly amused. Jazz grinned at him, spreading his servos wide in a universal gesture of _what are ya gonna do?_

“Well done, Sam-o. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Sam would have rolled his eyes, but he was sure that it would set off an explosion inside of his skull. Instead, he frowned up at the second-in-command. “You can’t just change the rules without telling me.”

“The first rule of infiltration is that there are no rules." Jazz replied, uncharacteristically serious, "Firewalls can be violated, egress filters can be uncovered, airtight defense systems can be hacked. You must expect the unexpected.”

“Yeah, alright Oscar Wilde.” Sam grumbled.

“Unfortunately for you, that was over twelve minutes.” Jazz continued, “You owe me one, and I’ll be cashing that check tomorrow afternoon.”

Sam felt a flash of hot anger, spurred on by both the unfairness of the exercise and the throbbing pain in his skull. Jazz’s expression softened sympathetically as he brushed across Sam’s mind.

“You did well. I hadn’t expected you to figure it out, I thought you’d call it quits.”

Sam leaned away from the saboteur’s touch, his head pounding and stomach queasy.

“It’s fine.” He managed tightly, “Are we finished?”

Jazz’s expression was unreadable, but he nodded in response. Sam pushed himself to his feet, leaning against Bumblebee’s chassis where he stood next to the berth. He could feel Ratchet’s clinical scrutiny across their bond. As the others dispersed across the hanger—Jazz and Arcee moving like shadows, Hot Rod talking loudly and good-naturedly to Cliffjumper—the medic came to stand beside Bumblebee. He folded his arms over his chassis, looking down at Sam.

“You know what I am going to recommend. It will not take long.”

“I don’t feel like arguing with you right now.” Sam rasped tiredly, “I just want to go lie down.”

“Sam—“

“Christ, Ratchet. What do you want me to say?” He demanded, the surge of anger and frustration making his stomach roil, “I have some skeletons in my closet, okay? I’ll work through it with Karen, not with you.”

Ratchet’s brow ridges came together and his mouthplates tightened minutely. It gave him a stern, disapproving countenance.

“I have agreed to this endeavor, dangerous though it may be, because I have been convinced that the benefits will outweigh the risks. However, let me be perfectly clear: if you continue down this path, you will eventually require stasis treatment, whether by your choice or by mine.”

Sam’s stomach tightened with anxiety, and he suddenly couldn’t meet Ratchet’s gaze.

“Are you going to make me?” He asked, quietly.

Ratchet ex-vented softly, his mental presence restless and unhappy. “No, Sam. Not tonight. But eventually, I won’t have any other choice.” 

Sam nodded faintly, “Alright. Thanks, Ratch.”

The medic stared down at him a moment longer before nodding tersely. “If I can’t convince you to submit to treatment, then at least rest quietly until your neural connections rebound.”

Ratchet strode away without another word, resuming his position by the workbench against the wall. Sam stared at his back for a long moment, before Bumblebee whistled at him softly. He turned tired eyes towards the scout.

“Would you like me to walk back with you?”

Sam shook his head faintly. “Are you busy? Can I stay with you, at least for a little while?”

Bumblebee _chirruped_ at him gently, gathering Sam up in his servos and bringing him close to his chassis. Sam closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to settle his stomach as the scout transformed around him. The transformation sequence was slower than usual, and Sam found himself less squeezed and buffeted as a result. When he opened his eyes again, it was to the familiar sight of Bumblebee’s cabin. As soon as the last component slotted into place, Bumblebee’s engine turned over and the dashboard lit up. The scout accelerated across the hanger, down the tunnel on the opposite side. Sam curled up on his side, staring blindly out the window as they drove. The tunnel was dark and the overhead lights flashed by in a steady sequence. Sam closed his eyes, willing his stomach to settle down. A moment later, the strobe effect was gone, and he knew without looking that Bumblebee had darkened his windows.

It felt like forever, but was likely less than two minutes, before Bumblebee turned and slowed to a stop. The cabin was dark and quiet, and Sam sighed softly in relief. He rolled onto his back, pressing his knuckles into his eye sockets.

“Do you need anything?” Bumblebee murmured, voice pitched low so as not to startle him.

“No thanks, I just want to sit here a while. Is that okay?”

Bumblebee’s mental presence curled around him, close but not suffocating.

“Of course, I'm free until we leave for patrol.”

Sam nodded faintly, and then his memory caught up with Bumblebee’s words. He squinted open his eyes, looking at the dash. “I forgot to tell you, I invited Novo on patrol tonight.”

Bumblebee’s mental presence warmed, _thrumming_ against his mind in a soothing pulse.

“I don’t know whether you’ll be recovered before eight, but I'm glad that you invited him. I know you two have become close over the last few weeks.”

Sam’s lips curled up in a smile, faint but genuine. “I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned him to you.”

Bumblebee chuckled quietly. “Never directly, but I knew of him. Dave Carter also mentioned it.”

That caught Sam’s attention. He lifted his head, pinning the dash with a surprised look.

“Oh?”

Bumblebee’s mental presence gentled, _nudging_ against him meaningfully, and Sam laid his head back against the seat. As soon as he was settled down, Bumblebee answered his question.

“Carter suggested that Lieutenant Novo be reassigned to the embassy, on account of how well you two seemed to get along. Optimus and Karen both agreed.”

Sam laughed softly. “Bumblebee, you guys can’t just assign me a new friend.”

He could feel the scout’s amusement and affection, as clearly as if the feelings had been his own.

“Perhaps not, but we can certainly encourage your friendship. It’s been too long since you’ve spent any time with people your own age.”

Sam looked at the dashboard through half-lidded eyes. “Yeah, I guess that’s true. Do you mind if I try to catch some sleep? I’m worn-out.”

By way of answer, the driver’s side seat reclined all the way down. Sam stretched out, crossing his legs at the ankles and folding his hands over his belly.

“Thanks, Bee.”

He drifted for a long while, the throbbing in his head easing over time. Sam was just beginning to nod off when a thought occurred to him. He smiled faintly. “Did you know that Jazz was moving around? When he trained you?”

Bumblebee’s mental presence brightened with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “No comment. Get some rest, Sam.”

Sam chuckled to himself, but he settled back against the soft leather without another word. A warm feeling of accomplishment followed him all the way down into his dreams.


	16. Chapter 16

Sam was startled awake sometime later by a loud knock on the driver’s side window. He jackknifed into a sitting position, looking around in confusion, until he caught sight of Luis’ shit-eating grin. Sam groaned, falling back against the seat, which rose up to meet him. Luis walked around the front of the car, and when he neared the passenger side, the door opened for him.

“Rise and shine, chico.” Luis greeted, settling into the front seat. Sam glared at him, but his grumpiness was mollified a moment later when Luis handed him a sandwich and a bottle of Coke, “I was instructed to bring sustenance.”

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face, taking a quick inventory of himself. His headache had mostly abated, and his nausea was gone entirely, replaced with sharp hunger. He glanced down at the dashboard. It was 8:17 PM.

“Thanks.” Sam said, unwrapping the sandwich and arranging the paper on his lap to catch any drippings, “Aren’t we late for patrol?”

Bumblebee’s voice cut through the cabin, visibly startling Luis.

“Hot Rod agreed to take my place. He and Cliffjumper left at eight.”

Sam felt a pang of disappointment. “That sucks.”

“If you want to go for a drive, I’m sure we could catch up to them.” Luis said, looking appreciably around the cabin.

By way of answer, Bumblebee’s engine revved loudly, reverberating around the enclosed space in which they were parked. Now that the window tint had faded away, Sam could see they were in a roughly circular room that was divided into a number of wedge-shaped alcoves. Their alcove seemed to have been set aside for recharge, as there were several berths arranged along the back wall. The alcove across from them included a squat workbench and floor-to-ceiling shelving filled with all manner of alien technology. Another alcove was filled with large crates stacked one on top of the other—even from a distance, Sam could make out the hazardous materials symbol painted on each one.

He glanced down at the dash in curiosity.

 _//Energon.//_ Bumblebee supplied.

Sam glanced over at Luis, who was looking at him expectantly.

“Oh, right. Yeah, a drive would be awesome.” He said. Sam opened the sandwich, which was piled high with thickly cut turkey, bacon, lettuce and cheese. No tomatoes. He replaced the slice of bread and took a large bite.

_Heaven._

Bumblebee’s engine revved again, and then he accelerated forward, driving out of the wedge-shaped alcove and down the tunnel. The speedometer inched upwards as they drove, ticking past fifteen, twenty, thirty miles per hour. The hanging toffer lighting flashed by overhead in a steady strobe of _light-darkness-light_ , but the effect didn’t bother Sam’s stomach this time. In less than two minutes, they made their way back to the medical bay hangar. Ratchet stood at his workbench, fiddling with a disassembled piece of equipment. Sam _brushed_ against him in greeting, and, without turning around, the medic raised his servo in an impatient wave. 

Sam rolled his eyes but he was smiling as he took another bite of his sandwich. They turned down the long tunnel lined with metal doors, driving out into the ground bridge hangar a moment later. Wheeljack and Jazz were crouched down in front of the ground bridge controls. The engineer’s servos were full of a tangled mass of multi-colored wires, and Jazz seemed intent on what he was doing. When Bumblebee made to turn down the exit tunnel, the second-in-command glanced up and met Sam’s gaze. He grinned at him, and then tapped a single digit against the side of his helm. Sam was confused for only a moment before understanding dawned on him. Taking another bite of protein-and-carb perfection, he turned his attention inwards and pushed his firewalls back into place.

They made their way through the tunnel towards the checkpoint at the exit. Bumblebee slowed down long enough for the uniformed soldiers to raise the boom that crossed the entryway, and then they were accelerating into the desert. Sam stared out the window in abject curiosity. The sun had set recently, and the sky was a tapestry of deep purples and golden orange. The entrance to the embassy was cut into the base of a towering mesa. Its steep, red sandstone sides rose up out of the flat desert around it. They drove away from the checkpoint, down a road that looked as though it had just been paved. The asphalt was dark, and the lines were painted crisp and bright. They passed the entrance to a gated-off parking lot to the left, which was mostly empty, and then Bumblebee accelerated to sixty-five miles per hour. The desert flashed by on both sides of the car, as the perimeter fence rose up in front of them.

Abruptly, Bumblebee turned off the road and began driving parallel to the fence. The tall, chain-link barrier passed by on their right as desert extended all the way to the mesa on their left. The entrance to the embassy rapidly disappeared as Bumblebee continued driving. Sam ate his sandwich as they drove, and as soon as the last bite was finished, he felt a swell of _anticipation_ and _caution_ from his guardian.

“Buckle up.” Sam warned, reaching around to grab his seatbelt and pull it across his chest. Luis hurried to follow suit. The moment that the two latches clicked into place, Bumblebee sharply accelerated. Sam was pressed back into his seat by the sudden force, and he laughed aloud as the Camaro went from sixty-five to two hundred in less than five seconds.

“Holy shit.” Luis breathed in reverence, “I mean, _holy shit_.”

Sam grinned at him, balling up the sandwich paper and tucking it in the cup holder for later. “I know the feeling.”

The desert passed by them in a blur. A glance at the rearview mirror showed that Bumblebee’s tires were throwing up great clouds of dust in their wake. Still, the speedometer crept higher and higher—210, 220, 230 miles per hour. They followed the perimeter fence as it curved around the towering mesa. It was not long before Sam could make out the familiar shapes of a Bugatti Chiron and Lamborghini Centenario in the distance. As they approached Cliffjumper and Hot Rod, Bumblebee’s mental presence sharpened with _exhilaration_ and _challenge_. Sam leaned into their bond, feeling what Bumblebee felt—the thrill of pushing his systems, the freedom of open space, and the joy of unfettered speed.

Rather than slowing down, as Sam had expected, Bumblebee roared past Cliff and Roddy, fishtailing his back end to kick up a spray of sand and dust. There was a cacophony of affronted honking, and then Bumblebee was off again. Sam glanced in the rearview mirror to see that both cars were in hot pursuit.

“This is the best day of my life.” Luis laughed, twisting in his seat to watch as Cliffjumper shot past Bumblebee on the passenger side. The red and black Bugatti pulled in front, brake checking them hard. At the same time, Hot Rod roared by on the driver’s side, pulling ahead of them both.

Sam braced himself, one hand on the door and the other on the center console. “Hold on.”

Luis copied him, and then a second later, Bumblebee swerved sharply to the left and accelerated to 280 miles per hour. Cliffjumper wasn’t able to get back in front of him, and the Bugatti fell behind as Bumblebee took after Hot Rod. The Lamborghini was hauling ass at least a quarter of a mile ahead of them. 

“There’s no way we can catch up to him.” Luis shouted over the roar of the Camaro’s engine.

“Bumblebee’s the fastest scout under Optimus’ command.” Sam shouted back, “Hot Rod doesn’t stand a chance.”

The speedometer on the dashboard capped out at 300 miles per hour, its needle buried in the red. Sam knew that they were still accelerating, could feel it in the g-force pressing his body into the driver’s seat. He was almost dizzy with the adrenaline singing through his bloodstream. Slowly but surely, they closed the distance between Hot Rod, and then the Camaro and the Lamborghini were driving side by side. They were rapidly approaching the curve in the fence, and both cars entered a coordinated slide as they took the corner. Sam glanced into the rearview mirror in time to see Cliffjumper shoot out from the curtain of dust left in their wakes.

Sam could feel Bumblebee steel himself, his mental presence focused and determined. The roar of his engine increased in pitch once again, and then Bumblebee was pulling in front of the Lamborghini. There was one final burst of speed as they passed a utility box affixed to the inside of the perimeter fence, and then Bumblebee rapidly slowed to a stop.

Sam was breathing hard, a big, stupid grin plastered across his face. He turned to look at Luis, who was wearing a similarly awestruck expression. As soon as they made eye contact, both men unfastened their seatbelts and scrambled out of the cabin.

“That was _incredible_.” Luis cried out, coming around the front of the car. Hot Rod and Cliffjumper pulled to a stop a short distance away.

Sam laughed, patting Bumblebee’s hood. His hand came away dusty, and it was then that he realized all three cars were coated in fine, red sand.

“He’s pretty impressive.” Sam agreed, turning to grin at Hot Rod and Cliffjumper, “You two aren’t so bad yourselves.”

The two Autobots transformed into their bipedal modes. Cliffjumper crouched down in front of them, his expression openly amused. Hot Rod put one servo on his hip and waved the other impatiently.

“Please, I could have won by a mile if Cliff was a better wingman.”

Sam laughed, leaning back against Bumblebee’s hood and propping his hands flat on the rapidly cooling metal. “But you didn’t.”

“But I could have.” Hot Rod repeated petulantly. 

“But you _didn’t_.”

Bumblebee’s engine purred beneath his hands, his mental presence radiating amusement.

“ _Mierda_ , look at that view.” Luis whistled. Sam turned his head, following Luis’ gaze. The sky had darkened to a deep navy above them, fading to pale yellow at the horizon. The last of the dying sunlight cast long shadows across the sand, accentuating every stone and scrubby bush. The stars were just beginning to appear overhead, twinkling against the inky firmament. This far from a major city center, there was no light pollution to obscure their view.

Sam sighed wistfully. He couldn’t remember the last time that he’d watched the stars come out. It seemed that Luis was thinking along a similar vein, for the other man stared at the sky with a quiet expression on his face.

“Can you see your planet from here?” Luis asked eventually, glancing towards Cliffjumper and Hot Rod.

“Cybertron is not bright enough to be seen with the naked eye.” Cliffjumper said, shaking his helm, “But its star is visible, just there. Look.”

Cliff raised his arm, pointing above the mesa. The sky in Nevada was near enough to the sky above Tranquility that Sam could find the Hadean star with ease. He glanced at Luis to see a frown furrowing his brow. He leaned over until their shoulders bumped together. “Look, do you see the Little Dipper?”

“Yeah.” He nodded.

“Okay, so to the right of the handle, just before it ends, there are four stars in a diamond-shape. See?” It took a second, but eventually Luis nodded, “The brightest one, bottom-left. That’s the Hadean star. Cybertron is one of its ten planets.”

Luis was silent for a long moment, staring at the sky. He seemed deep in thought, almost pensive, and Sam didn’t try to draw him into a conversation. Eventually, Cliffjumper sighed.

“We should head back. We’re late enough as it is.”

Sam didn’t bother arguing with the scout. The desert had cooled off considerably since the sun had set, and goosebumps were already breaking out over his arms. Sam stood up, making his way around to the driver’s side door. Luis lingered for a moment longer and then he followed suit. Sam climbed into the cabin, settling into his seat. He reached out to grab the bottle of soda in the cup holder, twisting off the cap and taking a long drink. As soon as Luis sat down next to him, Bumblebee’s dash lit up and he accelerated along the fence in the direction of the lights shining in the distance. Sam didn’t need to look to know that Cliffjumper and Hot Rod were following behind them.

It was almost ten-thirty by the time they pulled into the ground bridge hangar. Sam and Luis climbed out of the Bumblebee’s cab as Hot Rod and Cliffjumper continued towards Munitions. He smiled affectionately at the Camaro, running his hand over the dusty yellow bonnet.

“Do you guys have a wash racks?” Sam asked curiously. He hadn’t noticed anything like that in the circular room they’d been parked in earlier.

“There is a decontamination shower at the opposite end of Munitions that we use. It’s not ideal, but it gets the job done.” Bumblebee answered, his voice wafting from the stereo system.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Good-night, Bee.” He said, mostly for Luis’ benefit. The scout brushed against his mind in farewell, and then he accelerated out of the hangar. His mental presence remained close, even after his alt mode disappeared around a bend in the tunnel.

Sam and Luis made their way up the steps and into the embassy, nodding at the uniformed soldiers standing sentry on either side of the entrance. The reception area was quiet and empty at the late hour. They walked across the foyer and down the hallway towards Human Resources. All of the offices that they passed were closed, except for the mailroom door, which stood open. The _whirr_ of a photocopier printing out paper could be heard in the hallway, attesting to the fact that at least one person was working late that night.

They passed through Finance and Legal before walking across the foyer. The cafeteria was closed, its large glass window darkened except for the light from the vending machines against the far wall. Sam and Luis made their way up the stairs and into the residential section. Luis stopped in front of his apartment, unlocking the door and wishing Sam a good night. Sam waved at him as he continued on down the hallway.

His apartment was dark and quiet when he pushed open the door. Sam snapped on the lights, toeing off his shoes and dropping his keys onto the counter. He opened the cupboard with the dried goods, pulling down a box of cereal. He didn’t have any milk, so Sam leaned against the counter and ate straight out of the box. No reason to dirty a bowl.

When he was satiated, Sam put the box back into the cupboard. He felt gritty from head to toe after the wild ride, so he made his way into the bathroom, pulling off clothes as he walked. He had an indulgently hot shower, leaning against the tiled wall and letting water run down between his shoulder blades long after he was clean. By the time that he climbed out of the shower and dried off, the mirror above the sink was fogged with condensation. Sam slung the towel over his shoulder, walking out of the bathroom and over to the closet to grab a pair of boxer shorts. He pulled them on one leg at a time, and then tossed the towel into the hamper. He made two mental notes to himself: one, figure out where the laundromat was, and two, place an order for some groceries.

Sam climbed into bed only moments later. After his long shower, the sheets were pleasantly cool against his skin. He curled up on his side, one knee pulled close to his chest, and let his eyes flutter shut. He didn’t know for how long he laid there, half-asleep and comfortable, but he knew the moment that Bumblebee’s holoform appeared at his bedside. Sam made a contented sound, shifting backwards to make room for him. The holoform climbed into bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. Sam curled against him as Bumblebee pressed a kiss to the crown of his head.

They laid there for a long while, when a thought suddenly occurred to him. Sam laughed quietly into the holoform’s chest. “You know, when you stood up in that junkyard four years ago, scaring the shit out of me, I might add, I never would have taken you for a cuddler.”

Bumblebee chuckled, tracing the fingers of one hand up and down Sam’s arm.

“Four years ago, I wasn’t a cuddler.” He murmured, and Sam could hear the warmth in his voice, “A lot has changed since then.”

Sam made a soft sound in agreement, and then the corners of his lips curled up.

“You were incredible today.”

“I’m incredible every day.” Bumblebee returned.

Sam rolled his eyes, but he was smiling now. “Did Roddy get over it eventually?”

“Hot Rod got over losing to me about two million years ago.” Bumblebee replied dryly, “Practice makes perfect.”

Sam grinned. He was sure that it must have taken Hot Rod a long time to stop being a sore loser—the cavalier wasn’t exactly a paragon of humility. Bumblebee chuckled, evidentially following Sam’s train of thought. They fell quiet for a time after that—Sam, warm and comfortable, and Bumblebee, calm and content. Sam leaned into the scout’s mental presence, reveling in the tranquility of their bond-space.

Eventually, Sam squinted open his eyes, looking up at the holoform’s face.

“How long can you stay?”

“I am scheduled for recharge from oh-one-hundred to oh-five-hundred.” Bumblebee murmured. His words sounded like an apology.

“Will you be around tomorrow morning?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Will you wake me up?” Sam asked.

“Of course.” Bumblebee replied, and Sam could hear the smile in his voice, “Rest now. I am sure that Jazz has plans for you tomorrow.” 

Sam groaned at that, but he settled down without further complaint. The room was dark and quiet, except for the wan light above the sink. As he slipped closer to sleep, Sam reflected on how quickly the small apartment had come to feel like home.

But then, Sam supposed, so long as he was with Bumblebee, anywhere would feel like home.

* * *

Sam was in the office the following morning by nine o’clock. It was a Sunday, so the administrative section was quieter than it had been the days before. He spent several hours cleaning out his Inbox and getting a head start on the remainder of the readings that Optimus had assigned for the week. It quickly became apparent that the Autobot leader had no qualms about laying on the work. There were two data files on governance and another on political ideologies that together totaled over 17,000 words. It was almost noon by the time that Sam had finished reading. He spent forty more minutes typing up the notes that he had jotted down, and then he shut off his monitor and grabbed his identification badge, striding out of the office and down the hall.

The cafeteria was almost deserted despite the lunch hour. Sam picked up a tray from the stack at the end of the galley, and made his way down the counter to the hot foods section. He wasn’t exactly blown away by the options available to him, which included a greasy-looking slice of pepperoni pizza or a thin vegetarian chili.

 _God, I miss Diego Garcia._ He thought dejectedly. Suddenly, the empty cafeteria made a lot more sense.

He ended up choosing another turkey sandwich and a bag of chips. Sam paid for his items and then considered his options—he could stay and eat at the comfortable-looking armchairs near the vending machines, or he could go back to the office and eat in private. He waffled for only a moment before making his way back out of cafeteria and down the hallway towards Legal. He was glad for his decision when he shut his office door behind him.

After lunch, Sam did some digging to figure out how to buy himself some groceries. It took only a short e-mail to Bill Fowler and a terse conversation with Ultra Magnus to come up with a solution. Sam would write up a grocery list, being as specific as possible, and Bill would have someone go into town and shop for him. Sam knew that he had limited space in the kitchenette (a single cupboard for dry goods and a mini bar fridge for cold items) so he wrote up a shopping list with that in mind. He chose a few boxes of cereal and crackers, two types of granola bars, some condiments, and then a variety of instant meals that could be made just by adding boiling water. He jotted down a few refrigerated items, including staples like milk, butter, and yogurt, and then he sent the list to Fowler. If he had forgotten anything, he could always get it the next time.

Since it was Sunday, there was no debriefing that afternoon. Sam spent the time preparing for his mid-term exams instead, which were a week from Wednesday. He felt confident about his knowledge of the material, but he still reviewed his lectures and re-read his notes. Although Sam took periodic breaks, whether to use the bathroom or to refill his tea from the kitchenette down in Finance, he was still startled when he looked at the clock and saw it was almost three o’clock. Sam saved his word document, checked his Inbox one last time, and then shut down his computer. He would have to hurry if he didn’t want to keep Jazz waiting, and judging by the ominous tone of the saboteur’s promise the day before, keeping him waiting would be a bad idea.

Sam made his way down the hallway and across the cafeteria foyer towards Logistics. Donna had been right that it was faster to get to the Autobot hanger this way from his office. Logistics was markedly busier than the administrative section had been, but he still only passed a handful of people on his way to the Munitions entrance. Despite Sam’s best efforts, it was still five minutes after the hour by the time that he stepped through the entryway onto the scaffold in the Autobot hanger. The cavernous space was almost empty except Ratchet, who stood in front of his workbench, and Jazz, who was waiting in front of the metal platform. The second-in-command’s arms were folded over his chassis, helm tilted to the side. Although his expression was benign, Sam felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“I got caught up with work.” Sam said lamely.

Jazz made a noncommittal noise deep in his intakes, before extending a servo towards him. He beckoned with his digits in a ‘come hither’ gesture, and Sam winced internally as he climbed onto the proffered palm. The second-in-command carried him across the hangar to the nearest berth, setting him down and staring at him with an expectant expression.

Sam stared back at him uncertainly. “Uh… I’m sorry?”

The corner of Jazz’s mouthplates twitched precariously. “Lose the firewalls, kid.”

“Oh. Right.” Sam said, flushing with embarrassment. He turned his attention inwards, dropping the firewalls as one might drop a blanket. It was only then that he realized he could not feel Bumblebee’s spark signature. Sam knew that the scout had bridged to Diego Garcia to work on something with Prowl and Perceptor, but that had been hours ago.

“He should be back soon.” Ratchet said gruffly, stepping towards the berth, “Perceptor detected a signal anomaly, and they are trying to determine whether it is the _Upstart_.”

Sam frowned faintly. “Really? Why isn’t the embassy on alert?”

Ratchet rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “The signal was last detected on the near side of the asteroid belt.”

“Oh.” Sam replied in surprise, “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“It’s too soon to say.” Ratchet rumbled, and there was something dark about his tone, “Shockwave does nothing without careful consideration, so I doubt it will bode well for us either way.”

“Oh.” Sam repeated, with a great deal less enthusiasm, “Super.”

Ratchet seemed to be in grudging agreement with his assessment, but Jazz cut in before the medic could comment.

“Alright, Sam. We’re going to do something a little different today.” Jazz said, pulling his attention away from mysterious sensor anomalies and back to the issue of training, “I want you to pull up an egress filter.”

Sam settled down onto the berth, sitting cross-legged on the polished metal, and did as the saboteur instructed. The egress filter fell over his mind like a silken shroud, soft and comfortable. Jazz seemed to regard him for a long moment, as though in contemplation.

“It’s a good filter.” He said at last, his helm tipped to the side. “But it could be better.”

“Well, I’m not sure if you’re aware, but I’m pretty new to all of this.” Sam said dryly. 

Jazz smirked at him, and Sam’s trepidation from earlier came back in full force.

“This isn’t going to be pleasant.” Jazz said, direct and to the point.

“Oh, like everything’s been a walk in the park so far?” Sam replied sarcastically. 

Jazz shrugged, folding his arms over his chassis. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

What followed was a brutal reverse-experience to what Sam had gone through the day before. Rather than Sam trying to find Jazz, Jazz looked for Sam. Every time that the saboteur located him, he _rapped_ Sam smartly across his mind. Although the admonishments were not terribly painful in and of themselves, the cumulative effect was deeply unpleasant. Jazz gave him instructions as they worked, having Sam reinforce and readjust his egress filter, pulling it tightly across his mental presence until it fit more like a glove than a shroud. The second-in-command was merciless in his criticism. If Sam lost control of any part of his filter, Jazz called him out and made him adjust it mid-exercise. It was not long before Sam was sweating in earnest, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he struggled to maintain the form, position, and integrity of the egress filter as he moved across the neural-network.

When Jazz caught him yet again, Sam dropped the filter with a groan and held up his hand. “That’s enough, I’m done.”

Jazz nodded understandingly, his indigo-colored glow receding away from him. “You did well.”

“Uh huh.” Sam managed, already reaching for the bottle of fluids that Ratchet was handing him. After he had taken a long drink, he glanced up at the second-in-command, “Was this payback for being late?”

Jazz’s smile was pleasant. “Sam, however could you think that?”

Sam rolled his eyes, wincing at the way it set off the pounding between his temples. Before he could formulate an appropriately scathing reply, the mood in the hangar abruptly shifted. Ratchet and Jazz stiffened from helm to pede, turning to look at one another in perfect unison.

“I will send for Hoist and First Aid.” Ratchet said, seemingly apropos of nothing. His voice was all business, “They will require assistance to bring all the equipment that we may need.”

Jazz was already nodding, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “I have recalled the scouts. Cliffjumper and Arcee will assist on our end. I will leave it to Prowl to assign help on their side.”

Sam stared at the saboteur, taken aback his sudden transformation. Jazz’s relaxed posture and easy smile were gone, replaced by a calm purpose and confidence that spoke to his unquestionable authority. Sam knew, in that moment, he was looking at Jazz the second-in-command, not Jazz the fun-loving mechanoid he had come to know over the last three days.

“Optimus is sending through a search party. I will greet them at the bridge.” Jazz informed them, even as he transformed into his alt mode. The Pontiac Solstice shot out of the hangar as soon as his tires touched the smooth concrete floor.

Sam turned to look at Ratchet, anxiety and uncertainty causing his heart to drum painfully against his ribs. “Ratch, what is it? What’s happening?”

Ratchet was already reaching for him, and Sam submitted to being picked up without protest. The medic quickly strode across the hangar, setting him on the scaffold in front of the embassy entrance.

“The sensor anomaly was a distress signal.” He explained tersely, “It’s being transmitted on Autobot frequencies, but otherwise it has no identifying markers.”

Sam swallowed hard, wrapping his hands around the metal railing. “Is it another ship?”

Ratchet shook his helm sharply, already striding back towards the clinic. “It is unlikely, the signal is too weak. If we are fortunate, it’s originating from a skiff or an escape pod.”

Something about medic’s tone filled Sam with quiet dread.

“And if we’re not lucky?”

Ratchet half-turned to regard Sam over one broad pauldron. “If we are not lucky, then the distress signal is coming from a mechanoid traveling in interplanetary mode.”

Sam knew about their interplanetary modes. It was a pod-like protoform structure that allowed mechanoids to travel short distances across space. It was how Optimus and the others had arrived on Earth four years ago. “Why would that be a problem?”

Ratchet’s mental presence was grim. “The distress signal is a simple, repeating binary code. The only reason to use such a basic signal is if the mechanoid is injured or in stasis.”

Sam thought he could see where this was going. “Which means they won’t be able to safely navigate entry or landing when they get here.”

Ratchet’s terse nod told Sam that he had grasped the crux of the matter. Rather than reply to his comment, however, the medic waved him off. “Go. I cannot be distracted right now.”

Although Ratchet’s dismissal stung him, Sam turned around and left the hangar without another word. He was half-way through logistics when he found himself corralled back inside the Creator bond for the first time in weeks. That fact, more than the sudden activation or Ratchet’s grim mood, sent ice skittering down Sam’s spine.

With a substantial effort, Sam put all thoughts of the injured Autobot out of his mind. He made his way through Logistics, back towards his apartment. There was nothing he could do but wait.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Thank-you guys for your continued support! Tribulations has passed 10,000 views, Schism has passed 300 kudos, and the series has now passed **400,000** words!
> 
> I couldn't have done this without you guys. Truly.

Sam stopped by his office before returning to the apartment. He took the messenger bag off the hook behind the door, opening the flap and tucking his textbooks, notes, and datapad into the pouch. As he shouldered the bag, he glanced around the office to make certain that he hadn’t forgotten anything. His eyes settled on the mug near the computer monitor. He picked it up, emptying the last dregs of cold coffee into the wastebasket, and then took it with him as he made his way back into the hall, pulling the door shut behind him.

The administrative section was quiet this late on a Sunday afternoon. He nodded to a pair of women standing at the water cooler in Legal, but otherwise he didn’t see anyone else on the way back to his apartment. When Sam stepped into the small living space, he took off his shoes and dropped the messenger bag near the door. He walked over to the kitchenette, running the mug under the water and setting it in the sink. He’d wash it later when his head stopped pounding like the percussion section of the Philharmonic.

Sam padded towards the couch, falling onto the cushions with a groan. He laid there for a long while, his face pressed into the upholstery and his eyes squeezed shut. The Creator bond was quiet in his mind—Ratchet’s mental presence separated from him by heavy firewalls. After so long spent on the neural-network, the narrow bond-space felt confining and restrictive. Sam rolled over onto his side, so that he lay facing the back of the couch. At least the stillness of the Creator bond didn’t aggravate the pounding in his skull, the way that the _sensation_ and _impression_ of the neural-net was prone to do.

Sam laid there, quiet and still, suffering in silence. It was the better part of an hour before Bumblebee’s presence _brightened_ across their bond. Sam pushed himself into a sitting position at the same time that Bumblebee’s holoform appeared inside the apartment. He could tell from his mental presence that the situation with the unknown mechanoid had not been resolved. The scout felt almost electric with pent-up energy, a sort of restless anticipation like a horse champing at the bit.

Sam settled back against the couch, wincing at him. “Still no news, huh?”

The holoform gave a terse shake of his head, “No, nothing yet.”

Sam nodded, patting the cushion beside him. “Take a load off. Do they know anything at all?”

Bumblebee's lips twisted into a grimace as he moved to sit down on the couch. “Prowl believes the signal is coming from a skiff, which is good. Its current trajectory has it coming down somewhere in Montana.”

“Montana, huh? Better than the middle of the Pacific, I guess.”

“Optimus has sent two teams into the field, one to Montana and the other to Kansas. That’ll give us broad coverage of the West and Southwest, in case the trajectory changes.”

Sam digested this for a moment, and then asked, “What about the _Ark_?”

“What about her?”

“Can’t you guys, I don’t know, use a tractor beam or something?”

The expression on Bumblebee’s face was almost comically exasperated. “This isn’t _Star Trek_ , Sam. The _Ark_ is a military vessel, not a rescue frigate.”

“Oh, of course. Silly me.” Sam replied dryly. “I can’t believe I got your spaceship confused with one from science fiction.” 

Bumblebee rolled his eyes, but he was smiling faintly. “Optimus will send her up when the skiff is closer to Earth, but they won’t be able to follow her down. The United States prohibits all foreign military from accessing their airspace.”

Sam’s mouth turned down in a frown. “What, really?”

“Of course.” Bumblebee replied, “We don’t allow foreign military to enter our airspace, either.”

Sam stared at the holoform skeptically. “Not even for an emergency?”

“Not even then.” Bumblebee replied, “If the emergency took place in our airspace, we would scramble the jets and send emergency crews to assist. The United States will do the same for the skiff.”

As Sam mulled that over, he let his head fall back against the couch. The thundering in his temples had abated over the last hour or so, but it left him feeling wrung-out and spacey. He was having a difficult time following the conversation, let alone formulating a coherent reply. Bumblebee seemed to sense his discomfort, for his expression softened in sympathy.

“Rough day?” Bumblebee guessed.

“Oh, didn’t you hear?” Sam asked, all wry sarcasm, “I was late for training, and Jazz spent the rest of our time making me regret it.” Bumblebee didn’t laugh at him, but his lips thinned with the effort of suppressing a smile. Sam rolled his eyes, leveling him with a pointed look that was too halfhearted to be considered a glare. “Not. One. Word.”

Bumblebee held up his hands appeasingly, “I didn’t say a thing.”

“Uh huh.” Sam replied, crossing his ankles on the coffee table and folding his hands over his stomach.

Bumblebee chuckled, settling his hand against the crook of Sam’s shoulder. His thumb rubbed soothing circles into his skin. “I’m sure you did well.”

Sam’s lips quirked up, and he tipped his head back to allow the holoform better access. He sat in silence for a while, enjoying the feeling Bumblebee’s fingers kneading his flesh. Eventually, he murmured, “It was fine. Brutal neurological torture, but fine. I knew what I was signing up for.”

“It will get easier with time and practice.” Bumblebee promised softly.

Sam half-turned his head, a lopsided grin spreading across his face. “Thanks, Ratch. That’s comforting.”

Bumblebee snorted in affronted amusement, _flicking_ Sam with his forefinger and thumb. Sam yelped in surprise, clapping his hand against his neck as he twisted to stare at the holoform. Bee grinned at him, eyebrow quirked up in a challenge. _What are you going to do about it?_

Sam narrowed his eyes at the taunt. He might have been an only child, but he had roughhoused enough with his friends to teach the scout a thing or two. He braced his feet against the floor, preparing to enact unholy retribution, when a loud knock interrupted him. Sam’s eyebrows rose up in surprise, glancing reflexively at his wristwatch. It was almost seven o’clock at night; he had no idea who would be stopping by at this hour. He looked at Bumblebee, and when the holoform raised his shoulders in a shrug, Sam pushed to his feet and padded over to the entryway. He pulled open the door to reveal a youngish-looking man in a NEST uniform holding an assortment of plastic bags in both hands. All at once, Sam remembered the grocery order that he had left with Fowler earlier that afternoon.

“Good evening, sir. I was asked to deliver these. Where would you like them?” asked the man, lifting the bags slightly to emphasize his words.

“Oh, right. Please, come in.” Sam said, hastily stepping aside. The solider walked into the apartment, carrying the bags over to the kitchenette and setting them down on the floor. Although the man maintained his professional demeanor, his eyes skipped curiously around the apartment, settling first on Bumblebee and then on Sam.

“Agent Fowler sends his regards. He says that you should contact him if there’s anything amiss, but we’ve already checked the receipts, and everything seems to be in order.”

Sam glanced from the grocery bags to the soldier, nodding in understanding. “Okay, I’ll do that. Thank-you for making the trip.”

“It was my pleasure. Good evening, sir.”

The soldier nodded politely, turning on his heel and making his way out of the apartment. Sam watched him go, and as soon as the door shut behind him, he glanced down at the grocery bags.

“You’re lucky.” Sam said conversationally as he picked up two bags and carried them to the kitchenette, “I was about to see whether a holoform could get a Charley horse.”

Bumblebee chuckled at him, striding across the apartment to pick up the rest of the bags and set them on the counter. “My holoform doesn’t have any muscles to spasm.”

“Maybe not.” Sam agreed, opening the cupboard and shelving two boxes of cereal, “But I bet it wouldn’t feel good either way.” 

Bumblebee conceded the point with a smile. He pulled several boxes out of a grocery bag, handing them to Sam to put away. Sam made room in the cupboard as he worked, putting breakfast foods and snacks on the lower shelf and instant meals on the upper shelf. Thankfully, the cupboard was both tall and deep, and although there was only one available for foodstuff, there was more than enough room for his groceries. He put away the cold items next, including an assortment of condiments and staple foods. Bumblebee handed him item after item, as Sam arranged the mini-fridge to his liking. Then, Sam shut the fridge door and straightened up, gathering the grocery bags to tuck under the kitchen sink.

When he was finished, Sam stared at the kitchenette for a moment longer. His headache had softened over the last two hours, and his hunger was beginning to make itself known. Deciding to try out the microwave, he opened the cupboards and pulled down a package of instant noodles and a bowl.

“Do they have any idea when the skiff will arrive?” Sam asked, glancing over his shoulder at the holoform.

“Based on its speed and trajectory, Prowl expects it will break the outer atmosphere sometime after eleven o’clock this evening.” Bumblebee replied, leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his chest, “With good fortune, we will be able to learn more after the skiff enters our short-range communications field.”

Sam pulled open the microwave, setting the bowl on the glass turntable. “And no one has any idea who it might be?”

A grimace twisted the holoform’s mouth. “There’s speculation, of course. There always is, whenever a distress signal is detected.”

Sam could tell by his tone of voice that this was a sore subject for his bonded. He turned on the microwave before leaning back against the counter. He was unsure what to say, in situations such as these, when he was the outsider looking in, feeling completely out of his depth. Sam hesitated for a long moment, before he softly said, “Whoever it is, I hope they’re okay.”

The holoform’s eyes flicked up to meet his own.

“Thank-you.” He murmured, an undercurrent of emotion in his voice that Sam couldn’t pinpoint. Rather than try, he _brushed_ against the winter-white glow in his mind, trying to infuse as much reassurance and support into the touch as he could manage.

The microwave beeped a moment later, and Sam turned to pull it open. He retrieved the steaming bowl, careful not to burn his fingers, as he carried the meal over to the living space. He ate while sitting on the floor by the coffee table as the television played in the background. Bumblebee sat behind him on the couch, his legs on either side of Sam’s body. After Sam finished the instant noodles, he pushed the bowl away and leaned back against the couch, resting his head against the holoform’s knee. He could feel a swell of _affection_ from Bumblebee, a moment before his hand settled against the nape of Sam’s neck, giving him a gentle squeeze. They watched television for a while, as the scout grew steadily more distracted and agitated. The feeling set Sam’s teeth on edge—it was the mental equivalent of a low-voltage electric shock. 

“Lemme wash this, I’ll be right back.” Sam said, pushing himself to his feet and picking the bowl off the coffee table. He padded over to the kitchenette, rummaging around until he had found dish soap and a cloth. He washed the few dishes that he had dirtied since he had arrived, laying them out on a towel to dry. By the time that he turned off the water, wringing out the cloth and draping it over the facet, Bumblebee was watching him closely.

Sam smiled faintly at the holoform. “What?”

“I appreciate your patience with me tonight.” He replied, expression reserved, “I’m not always the best company during a rescue.”

Sam restrained the wince that threatened to show on his face. He had been locked in stasis during his rescue from the _Nemesis_ —he could not imagine the worry and impatience and frustration that Bumblebee must have felt, waiting in hopes that the rescue attempt would be successful.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Bumblebee’s face became closed off and distant.

“I felt all of that and more during your rescue.” He said, as though acknowledging it to himself, “It was a welcome change from the hopelessness and despair I had suffered every day beforehand.”

Sam’s breath hitched in his throat, caught off-guard by the pained tone of his voice. As though something had given way, the holoform turned to look at him, continuing his thought. “I knew that you were alive, of course. I would have felt it if you had died, but the knowledge was cold comfort. I didn’t know what was happening to you—whether you were hurt, or losing hope, or suffering.”

“Bumblebee.” Sam breathed, stricken.

The holoform visibly composed himself, his lips thinning in a grimace. “I did not mean to burden you. Please, forget that I spoke.”

His bonded’s voice had gone flat and guarded, the same way it had when Sam had undermined his competency in front of the entire command center all of those years ago. Sam walked forward on bare feet, hesitant and plaintive. “Don’t say that, Bee. Your burdens are my burdens.”

The holoform met his gaze, directly and without flinching. “Not this, Sam. This is mine to bear alone.”

“We’ve both done more than enough of that over the last two years.” Sam said, frowning as he moved to sit on the coffee table. The holoform’s expression remained unchanged, but his mental presence became withdrawn, almost defensive, and Sam leaned forward, bracing his hands on the holoform’s knees, “You can talk to me.” 

Bumblebee took both of Sam’s hands in his own. “I know I can, Sam. That’s not what this is about.”

Sam felt a twist of frustration at the firm tone of his voice. “You’ve barely said a thing about what you went through when I was gone.”

“There’s nothing to say.” Bumblebee replied softly.

Sam stared pointedly at the holoform. “I don’t believe you.”

Bumblebee’s expression became pained, his gaze falling away as he went preternaturally still. Sam waited him out, patient and supportive. The moment seemed stretch, suspended, like an insect in amber. Then, the holoform sighed heavily, breaking the spell. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat-sounding and detached.

“It was difficult. My defensive and offensive protocols ran hot nonstop. Eventually, Ratchet had to hard-code a medical override.” The holoform looked at Sam, his eyes almost storm-gray with restrained emotion, “I was angry at first. I lashed out at everyone and anyone. As the days turned to weeks, and the weeks turned to months, and lead after lead came up empty, eventually, my anger could no longer sustain me.”

Sam squeezed the holoform’s hands, his thumbs rubbing into the simulated flesh. Bumblebee’s expression softened, and he settled one hand over Sam’s, squeezing back gently.

“Cliffjumper and Hot Rod were with me all of the time.” He continued, something wry in his tone, “I was insufferable to them.”

Sam’s lips quirked up, “I’m sure they understood.”

Bumblebee chuckled softly. “Perhaps so, but I was standoffish and bitter. Hot Rod let me pick a fight in September that landed him in the medical bay and me in solitary confinement.”

“ _Bumblebee.”_ Sam breathed disbelievingly. 

“I know.” He replied, shaking his head, “Optimus had been patient with me up until that point. After I was released from the brig, he put me on double-shifts with Ironhide. I was resentful at the time, but I understand now that he was trying to keep me busy.” Bumblebee fell silent, his expression growing distant again. “I was alright until your birthday. That was… it was difficult. After that, I withdrew into myself. I completed my shifts and followed orders, but it was all on rote. I was just a machine.”

Sam flinched minutely, “Don’t say that.”

“It’s the truth.” Bumblebee replied. “The only time that I came back to myself was whenever there was another lead.”

Sam frowned, suddenly curious to know something but uncertain whether it was appropriate to ask. The holoform’s lips curved up in a wry smile, “You can ask me anything, Sam. I can’t guarantee that the answer will paint me in a flattering light, but I won’t be offended.”

“The battle with Blitzwing… was that when you were following a lead?”

Bumblebee’s eyes narrowed, his expression darkening in anger.

“No, that was an ambush. I was on patrol with Cliffjumper and Hot Rod, when Blitzwing and the Command Trine attacked us near Cust Point. Unfortunately for them, I had more than enough rage to go around.”

Sam was torn between amusement at the scout’s wry humor, and withering guilt for his role in the attack. Bumblebee must have sensed his unease, for his expression became searching. “What is it?”

“Megatron said that he would bring you to me.” Sam murmured, glancing up to meet the holoform’s gaze, “I knew that he’d torture you. I prayed that I’d never see you again, not so long as I was still on the _Nemesis._ ” 

Bumblebee’s eyes softened in understanding. “When the Seekers attacked, I wanted to make them suffer as I had suffered. It wasn’t until after the battle was over and the dust had settled that we realized their purpose—I wasn’t just the target, I was the objective.” The holoform hesitated before he continued, “I thought about it a great deal over the coming months.”

Sam’s eyes flicked up to the holoform’s face. “What do you mean, you thought about it?”

Bumblebee winced, but he did not evade the question. “Brute force and subterfuge is the Decepticon way. If they had asked me, had told me outright that they were bringing me to you, I don’t know what I would have done.”

The lie was as plain as the nose on his face. Sam pulled away, horror and relief and guilt curdling together in his chest. “I never would have forgiven you.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered.” The scout replied softly.

“ _Bumblebee.”_ Sam managed, aghast, “Promise me that you wouldn’t do that—that you wouldn’t throw away your life for me.” 

Bumblebee considered him for a long moment, his head tipped to the side and a soft expression on his face. “Is that a promise that you could make to me?”

The question pulled Sam up short. He stared back at the holoform, struggling to find an answer, even though he already knew the truth—it was a simple fact, immutable and certain. He would do anything to protect Bumblebee, whatever the cost. 

Eventually, Sam shook his head in resignation. “No.”

Bumblebee’s expression was tender as he clasped the sides of Sam’s face. “I know.”

They sat in silence for a long time after that, foreheads pressed together as _feeling_ and _sensation_ passed between them. There was nothing else to be said—they both understood each other perfectly. Sam pressed deeper into their bond-space, to that quiet, familiar place where their minds blurred together. He drifted for a while, comfortable and content. He was peripherally aware of distant sounds—the upbeat jingle of a commercial, the rumble of engines, voices raised in urgency—but it was difficult to parse out which of them was hearing what, and eventually, Sam stopped trying.

Suddenly, a spike of _anticipation_ rocked between them, startling Sam back to himself all at once. He snapped open his eyes in time to see the holoform surge to his feet. Although his expression was closed-off, there was rigid tension in every line of his body.

“What is it?” Sam rasped.

“We have made contact with the skiff.” Bumblebee replied, distractedly. It was clear that he was deeply engaged with whatever he was doing in his bipedal mode. Sam waited anxiously, armed crossed tightly over his chest. It seemed like forever before the holoform sighed softly, as though in relief.

“It’s Hound, Trailbreaker, and Bulkhead.” Bumblebee said at last, although Sam didn’t recognize any of the names.

“Okay, that’s good.” Sam said, before he noticed the grimace on Bumblebee’s face, “That’s good, right?”

“Trailbreaker is critically injured and in stasis-lock. They’ve had a recent skirmish with a Decepticon scout ship.”

Sam frowned deeply. “How recent exactly?”

“Twenty years ago.” Bumblebee replied, brow furrowed in concentration. “They’ve been flying on auto-pilot with their systems in hibernation mode to conserve power for almost as long. They came back on-line when they received Prime’s transmission.”

“Can they land the skiff?”

Bumblebee shook his head, “Their navigation systems are shot, same with propulsion. They only have basic maneuverability.”

“Are they going to make it?” Sam asked uncertainly.

“Kup is confident they can land without issue. He says that Bulkhead has survived worse situations than this.” At Sam’s confused look, Bumblebee clarified, “Bulkhead is a Wrecker. Think of them as the Cybertronian equivalent of the US Navy SEALS.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose of their own accord. “What, really?”

Bumblebee’s lips twitched up in a smile, evidentially amused by his surprise. “Yes, really. They’re a highly trained, highly specialized combat unit. The Wreckers are called in when all other avenues have failed.”

“Oh.” Sam replied, “Well, that’s good then. Right?”

Bumblebee shrugged, but it was a gesture of helplessness rather than nonchalance. “Assuming they don’t burn up in the atmosphere, yes.”

Sam winced at him. “How long until they reach Earth?”

“A few hours.” Bumblebee replied, “The _Ark_ will escort them the rest of the way to discourage either Starscream or Shockwave from trying to pick them off.” 

“Starscream has agreed to an armistice.” Sam reminded him dryly. They shared a look of mutual derision, before the holoform bent down to give him a quick kiss.

“I can’t stay. I’m needed at Diego Garcia.”

Sam’s stomach flip-flopped in anxiety, but he nodded. “Good luck.”

“You should try to get some sleep. It’s going to be a long night.” Bumblebee said.

“I’ll try.” Sam promised. “Go.”

The holoform smiled at him, a brief upturn of his lips, and then he was gone. A moment later, Bumblebee’s winter-white glow vanished from their bond-space, leaving a quiet ache in its absence.

* * *

Despite Sam’s promise to Bumblebee, he was not able to fall asleep. Instead, he restlessly paced his apartment, stopping only long enough to make himself something to eat or flip mindlessly through the television channels. As eleven o’clock ticked closer and closer, Sam’s anxiety ratcheted ever higher. The newcomers had traveled for decades in the vast, dark, emptiness of space, hoping for a rescue, and they could very well burn up in the atmosphere of an alien planet without ever seeing their comrades again. It was too awful to contemplate, but Sam could think of nothing else as time trudged inexorably onward.

When eleven o’clock passed, then eleven-thirty, and then midnight without any word, Sam thought perhaps that was a good sign. No news was good news, after all. It wasn’t until almost one o’clock in the morning that Sam spied his laptop sticking out from under the couch, and he nearly cursed himself for his stupidity. He grabbed the sleek, silver device, sitting down and opening it up in one fell motion. He absently chewed on his fingernail as the e-mail client loaded, and then he found what he had been looking for—there were over forty e-mails addressed to the Listserv for senior personnel spanning over the last eight hours. He read the messages as quickly as he could, skimming them for the most pertinent details. Although the e-mails did not contain any sensitive information, Sam was able to parse out what had happened. The skiff had landed just after eleven o’clock that evening in northern Montana, less than a hundred miles from the Canadian border. A team led by Optimus had been able to position themselves within a short distance from the site, and they arrived less than fifteen minutes after the skiff had crash-landed. The three mechanoids sustained a variety of injuries during entry and landing, and they had to be stabilized before being bridged to Jasper. Optimus and his team stayed behind to secure the skiff and cordon off the crash site together with the United States military. The most recent e-mail was an environmental impact assessment sent by Beachcomber. Evidentially, the crash had released both toxic fuel and radiation into the environment, which would necessitate an expansive (and expensive) remediation effort.

The e-mails provided no additional information about the wellbeing of the three newcomers. Sam inferred from the fact that Ratchet’s mental presence was still walled off that at least one of them was in need of urgent medical attention. Sam read through the e-mails again, more carefully this time, but he couldn’t find anything else. With a heavy sigh, he placed the laptop on the coffee table and then made his way over to the kitchenette to turn on the coffee maker. 

Bumblebee was right—it was going to be a long night.


	18. Chapter 18

Sam was startled awake by the sound of loud knocking. He blinked open his eyes, looking around in confusion. He was laying on the couch, his laptop sitting on the coffee table and the television playing on low. He must have fallen asleep sometime after the late-night talk shows had ended. He groaned softly, scrubbing a hand over his face as he pushed himself to his feet. A glance at his wristwatch revealed that it was just after seven o’clock in the morning—far too early for an unexpected visitor. 

He ran a hand through his hair as he stumbled over to the entryway. There was another knock as he grasped the handle, and when he pulled open the door, it was to find Luis on the other side, his hand raised mid-knock. The other man’s eyebrows rose up to his hairline at the sight of him, amusement slowly spreading across his face.

“Late night, huh?” He asked, stepping around Sam into the apartment.

“Please, come in.” Sam rasped, shutting the door behind him. Luis tossed him a cheeky grin as he made his way over to the kitchenette. Sam watched in exasperation as he checked the coffee machine for water, before turning it on and pulling two mugs down from the cupboard.

“There’s a senior staff meeting in an hour.” Luis said without turning around, adding coffee grinds to the percolator, “If you need to shower, and sorry man, you do, then you better hurry up.”

Sam ignored the dig, his memories of the previous night coming back to him all at once. “I fell asleep sometime after two. What’s happened?”

Luis turned around, leaning back against the counter with his hands braced flat against the laminate. His expression was openly contemplative. “The NEST briefings have been, well, _brief_ —“ Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “—but from what I understand, Bulkhead and Hound are none the worse for wear. The technicians have a pool going on which alts they’re going to choose. My money’s on a dump truck for Bulkhead, that guy’s built like a brick shithouse.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You’ve met them?”

“No, but I was in the hangar last night when they bridged in.” Luis explained as the coffee started percolating, “Bulkhead and Hound came through on their own, but Trailbreaker had to be brought in on a flatbed.”

“What are they like?” Sam asked curiously.

“They didn’t say much, and when they did, it was in Cybertronian.” Luis said, shrugging his shoulders.

Sam considered this as he briefly turned his attention inwards—he was still inside the Creator bond, which was as quiet as it had been last night. He frowned faintly, concerned, as his gaze flicked back up to Luis’ face. “I’m going to grab a quick shower, and then we can go. Have you had breakfast?”

“Nope, I just woke up.”

“I got some groceries yesterday, help yourself.” Sam said, opening the closet and pulling a button-up shirt and slacks off the hanger, “Thanks for the wake-up call, by the way.”

“ _De nada.”_ Luis replied, already rummaging through Sam’s cupboards.

Sam made his way into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He relieved himself and then stripped out of his rumpled clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. He showered as quickly as he was able, not even lingering a few moments to enjoy the warm water. After he dried off and got dressed, he took a minute to straighten up the bathroom and then he walked back into the living space. Luis was lounging on his sofa, eating a bowl of cereal and watching television.

“Coffee’s ready.” Luis mumbled, mouth full.

“Thanks.” Sam said, tossing his dirty laundry into the hamper. He ambled over to the kitchenette, pulling the milk carton out of the fridge.

“Have you seen this?” Luis asked, motioning to the television with his spoon. Sam glanced over his shoulder towards the screen, before turning around completely. Luis was watching the morning news briefing on CNN. An attractive female anchor was staring resolutely into the camera above the ticker text that read “FRIEND OR FOE? CYBERTRONIAN SPACE CRAFT CRASH-LANDS IN MONTANA”. There was a grainy picture of the wreckage site, obviously taken from a distance, in the right-hand corner of the screen.

Sam couldn’t suppress his grimace. “I avoid the news whenever possible.”

“That makes sense.” Luis conceded, “I’d get tired of seeing my ugly face on television every day too.”

Sam rolled his eyes, turning back towards the counter. He fixed his coffee the way he liked it and then made himself a bowl of cereal. He carried his dishes over to the couch, sitting down beside Luis, who promptly handed him the remote. Sam changed the channel to ESPN, and they watched two sportscasters argue over draft picks while he ate.

“I swear to God, John Anderson doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground.” Luis suddenly muttered.

Sam laughed out loud, turning to look at him. “What, why?”

“Are you kidding me?” He asked incredulously, gesturing towards the television, “The Patriots don’t have a prayer against the Steelers this year.”

Sam’s lips twitched in amusement. “Not a Patriots fan, I take it?”

“I’m not a drooling simpleton, so no.” Luis returned primly.

Sam laughed again, spooning the last remnants of cereal into his mouth and standing up, “You should talk to Carter some time. He hates the Patriots.”

“Carter’s judgment on the matter of football is questionable at best.” Luis replied dryly, “The man is a _Packers_ fan.”

Luis spoke the name like it was a dirty word, and Sam grinned at him as he put his dishes in the sink. “Watch it, Dave signs-off on your pay-check.” He said, glancing at his watch. “We need to go or else we’ll be late.”

“Yeah, alright. Give me a minute to hit the head.” Luis said, climbing to his feet and making his way to the bathroom. Sam picked up his messenger bag from where it lay beside the door, taking out his textbooks and the datapad to make room for a bottle of water and some snacks. He slipped the strap over his head as Luis reappeared, striding across the living space towards him.

“Good to go?” Sam asked, unplugging the coffee machine.

“Yup. Thanks for breakfast.” Luis replied, setting his mug on the counter.

“ _De nada_.” Sam said, earning him a grin from the other man. He pulled open the door, stepping into the hallway as Luis followed behind him. Together, they made their way through residential and down the wide, cement staircase to the administrative section. The foyer was busy at the early hour, and there was a loud clamor of talking and clinking dishes coming from the cafeteria. Sam and Luis continued down the hall, passing Legal, Finance, and Human Resources in turn, before stepping into the spacious reception area. The lobby was full of people, all of whom were dressed in professional attire or military garb. Sam nodded good-morning to Donna, who was sitting behind the semi-circular reception desk. Her auburn hair was twisted up in a complicated-looking knot and her nails were painted a deep burgundy-red. She smiled back at him, warmly.

Sam made his way through the throng of people and pulled open the conference room door. To his surprise, the room was empty except for three men standing near the podium. Sam recognized Fowler and Ultra Magnus right away, but it took him a moment to recognize Optimus’ holoform. He hadn’t realized that the Autobot leader had arrived at the embassy. At the sound of the door opening, all three men turned to face him, and Sam pulled up short.

“I’m sorry.” He hastily apologized, “Am I interrupting?”

Optimus’ eyes crinkled in a smile. “Not at all, Sam. It is good to see you again.”

Sam stepped into the room, letting the door close behind him. “Hey Optimus, it’s good to see you too.”

“I understand that you have settled in well. I have been following Ultra Magnus’ updates with great interest.”

Sam’s gaze flicked over to the City Commander, who was watching him with an air of dry amusement. It was the first time that he had seen Ultra Magnus’ holoform standing next to Optimus’, and now that he had, he could see the resemblance between them. Although Ultra Magnus was dressed more formally—he in a sharp-looking suit, while Optimus was wearing a red and blue plaid button-up and slacks—they were both tall and broad shouldered, with close-cut dark hair that was graying at the temples. If they had been human, it would have been easy to mistake them for brothers. 

He looked back at Optimus. “Yeah, I have. Ultra Magnus has been kind enough to answer some of my questions about Cybertron.”

“So I have heard.” Optimus replied, “And Jazz reports that you are showing a remarkable aptitude for infiltration.”

Sam huffed a laugh, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “He’s just being nice. I’ve spent the last three nights nursing a mental hang-over from hell.”

Optimus chuckled at him, his eyes twinkling in good humor. Before he could reply, however, Ultra Magnus cleared his throat. “Prime, it’s time.”

“Ah.” Optimus replied, inclining his head. “Of course. Sam, would you stay behind afterwards? I would speak with you.”

“Yeah, sure.” Sam said, taken by surprise, “Of course.”

Optimus inclined his head again, moving to stand at the front of the room. Sam unshouldered his messenger bag, sitting down at the conference table as Fowler took the seat beside him. Ultra Magnus strode to the double doors, pushing them open to allow the people milling in the lobby to enter. Slowly but steadily, the room began to fill as people made their way inside. Sam turned to nod at Luis, who had found a seat against the far wall. When he turned back around, he nearly jumped out of his skin. There was an unfamiliar man sitting in the seat to his left, which had been empty a moment before. The man was middle-aged, tall and lean, with sandy brown hair that curled about his ears. His hands were clasped together, forearms resting on the conference table, and he was staring at Sam with an intensity that made him feel uneasy.

“Uh. Hello.” Sam said awkwardly.

“Hello Sam Witwicky.” The man replied, staring unblinkingly at him, “I am happy to make your acquaintance. My name is Hound.”

Sam pulled back in surprise. “You—you’re Hound? Like, of the Autobot variety?”

“Yes. I am Hound of the Autobot variety.” He deadpanned. It was only then that Sam realized the holoform was sitting ramrod straight and preternaturally still. His face was completely devoid of emotion, with no facial tics or micro-expressions at all. Even the holoform’s voice was flat and inflectionless. The combined effect was creepy as fuck.

Hound tipped his head to the side, surveying him as though in consideration.

“You are uncomfortable.” He observed, “That was not my intention.”

Sam hesitated, uncertain what to say. It was Ultra Magnus, who was walking behind them on his way back to the front of the room, who said briskly, “Research nonverbal communication, cross-reference facial expressions and body language.”

Hound's eyes went faraway for a long moment. Then, all at once, it was as though someone had breathed life into him. He settled back into his seat, posture loose and relaxed, a friendly smile on his face.

“My apologies, Sam.” Hound said in that same monotone, “I am still incorporating the socio-cultural data packets into my processors. There is a great deal to learn about your people and your planet.”

“That’s alright.” Sam said, before hesitantly adding, “Uh, welcome to Earth.”

“Thank-you.” Hound replied, “It is a beautiful planet, I admired it greatly on our approach.”

Although his voice was as inflectionless, the sincerity on his face was unmistakable. Sam smiled at the holoform, strangely touched by his approbation. Before he could reply, however, Ultra Magnus called the meeting to order and then yielded the floor to Optimus.

Optimus stepped forward, inclining his head and introducing himself—as though he needed any introduction, Sam thought. The room was silent as Optimus spoke, every person listening intently to what the Autobot leader had to say. His experience with Hound caused Sam to watch Optimus more closely than usual, and he noticed all of the non-verbal cues that the holoform displayed. He made eye contact with people around the room, his facial expression was warm and welcoming, and he even talked with his hands, punctuating his words with meaningful gestures. Everything about the way Optimus presented himself cultivated an air of quiet authority that was impossible to ignore. 

The agenda for the meeting was brief, just two bullet points: one, the cleanup and remediation of the crash site, and two, the impending arrival of the Canadian delegation. The discussion of the remediation was quick and to-the-point. The skiff would be taken apart and bridged to Diego Garcia. After it was removed, a science team led by Beachcomber and Perceptor would oversee the remediation. Human participation in the cleanup would be minimal, owing to the radiation in the affected area.

The discussion about the Canadian delegation took a great deal longer. There were numerous details to go over, everything from their security detail, to transportation and lodging, to their agenda. Sam was unsurprised to learn that he was scheduled to meet with Ambassador Blanchard several times throughout the visit, including a dinner reception at a restaurant in Jasper. He didn’t mind—Blanchard was a nice guy and he was looking forward to seeing the town. 

When a woman sitting against the wall raised her hand, Optimus paused mid-sentence, fixing her with a patient look.

“Yes, Ms. Tanner?”

The woman was visibly taken aback by the fact he knew her name. “Mr. Prime, sir, what about the news crews?”

Optimus smiled at her. “Please, it’s just Prime. What about the news crews?”

“Sorry, Prime.” The woman amended, “I mean, what are we going to do about them? It’s going to be a circus.”

At his side, Sam heard Hound murmur, “A circus? Marvelous.”

“Ah, yes.” Optimus replied, “Some degree of media attention is to be expected, I am afraid. Agent Fowler and Agent Boyton will ensure the perimeter is maintained for the duration of the delegation’s visit.” 

Tanner nodded slowly. “Will we be granting any interviews? We’ve already had requests for both you and Ambassador Witwicky.”

For one heart-stopping moment, Sam was afraid that Optimus was going to agree. He flushed hotly in response, turning to look at the holoform in the hopes that he could wordlessly communicate his refusal. To his immense relief, the Autobot leader was already shaking his head.

“No, we will be denying their requests. I have prepared a statement that we will issue prior to the delegation’s arrival. If Ambassador Blanchard wishes to speak with the media, he may do so at the Marriott.”

The woman nodded, seemingly satisfied with his answer, and Optimus glanced around the room, waiting for any additional questions. When there was none, he continued the meeting. They spoke about security next, which caught Sam’s attention. While the delegation was at the embassy, NEST would be responsible for their protection. In the city, however, that responsibility fell to federal government. There was some discussion on the matter of security for the dinner reception in Jasper—the location of the _Upstart_ still wasn’t known, and it would be more difficult to control the media in town—but the matter was settled soon enough.

Optimus called the meeting to an end just after nine-thirty, providing a laundry list of tasks to both Logistics and Legal. Sam remained seated as people began to file out of the room. He turned to look at Hound, but was surprised to find that the seat beside him was empty. The holoform was nowhere to be seen.

“ _Hola amigo_.” Luis said, leaning back against the conference table beside him, “I’m due at Diego Garcia by ten. What are you doing tonight?”

Sam raised his shoulders in a shrug. “Nothing, why?”

“Dennis asked me to bring him back something for supper. You want anything?”

Sam huffed a laugh. Based on his limited experience with the embassy’s cafeteria, he didn’t blame the guy one bit. “I’d sell a kidney for some sweet and spicy chicken, if they have it.”

“I can check.” Luis agreed, clapping him on the shoulder as he straightened up, “I’m off. See you later.”

“ _Adiós._ ” Sam called after him.

Luis grinned at him over his shoulder, “Your accent is terrible, by the way.”

Sam shook his head, fighting a smile. Luis waved to him as he stepped into the lobby, the doors shutting behind him a moment later. Sam glanced towards the front of the room. Optimus and Ultra Magnus were speaking with a couple of stragglers, but otherwise the room was empty. Sam stood up, gathering his things and shouldering his messenger bag. By the time that he made his way towards the holoforms, the two people had finished speaking with them. He stepped aside so they could pass, and then he turned towards Optimus.

“Thanks for not throwing me to the wolves.” He said conversationally, pushing his hands into his pockets, “I appreciate it.”

“It would be difficult to interpret your reaction as anything other than an ardent refusal.” Ultra Magnus said dryly, from where he stood at Optimus’ side.

Sam grimaced at the reminder that the Autobots didn’t need to be inside his head to understand his mind on most matters. His physiology gave him away every time.

“How’s Trailbreaker?” He asked, changing the subject.

Optimus inclined his head. “He is out of surgery, but he will be in stasis for the foreseeable future.”

“Will he be okay?” Sam asked.

“We do not know.” Optimus replied, solemn and regretful, “He was in systems-lock for a long time.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Sam managed, unsure what else to say. 

Optimus inclined his head again, gracefully accepting Sam’s condolences. “Bulkhead and Hound have sustained only minor injuries. I thought perhaps you would like to meet them.”

“Yeah, sure.” He agreed, “I already met Hound. Well, his holoform anyway. He seems like a nice guy.”

“Hound is quite taken with your planet.” Optimus chuckled, gesturing with one hand towards the door.

Sam fell into step beside him as the Autobot leader made his way out of the conference room. When he turned around to see whether Ultra Magnus was following behind them, he found that the other holoform had disappeared. Optimus held the door open for him as Sam stepped into the lobby. The reception area was a great dealer quieter than it had been that morning, and he could hear the bustle of the ground bridge hangar echoing from the antechamber.

Donna stood up as Optimus approached the front desk, a courteous smile on her face. 

“Good morning, Prime.”

Optimus returned her smile, dignified and polite. “Good morning, Donna.”

The woman extended a piece of paper towards him. “Senator Rosen has left another message.”

The holoform’s expression was perfectly neutral as he accepted the note. His glanced down at the piece of paper, his facial expression betraying nothing of his thoughts, before handing it back to her. “I will have my personal assistant take care of it.” 

“As you say, Prime.” Donna replied respectfully, resuming her seat.

Optimus inclined his head in valediction, before making his way across the lobby and through the doors into the ground bridge hangar. Sam followed at his side, feeling more than a little self-conscious. Every person they passed, whether they were dressed in business casual attire, NEST uniforms, or the plain blue smocks of the custodial staff, nodded deeply to the Autobot leader. Optimus accepted their deference with dignity and grace, nodding to each person in turn. Sam was more than a little relieved when they finally strode into the Munitions tunnel, leaving the ground bridge hangar behind them. No one from the embassy was permitted in the Autobot’s portion of the base without express permission, which functionally made it a human-free zone. The realization that Sam was relieved to be away from other people gave him a funny turn. Before he could reflect more on that thought, however, Optimus glanced in his direction.

“I understand that you have made progress with your readings.”

Sam smiled wanly. “Yeah, I have. I enjoyed the files on jurisprudence, but the stuff on political ideologies was a slog.”

The holoform’s lips twitched in sympathetic amusement. “Indeed. You are currently reading the files on governance, correct?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask the Autobot leader how he knew that, but of course, Optimus would know what files had been accessed on the datapad. So instead, Sam just nodded. “Yeah, I am. I started yesterday afternoon, but I haven’t had the chance to finish yet.”

Optimus nodded in acknowledgement, before glancing sidelong at Sam. “If you are amenable, I would make an alteration to the reading list.”

Sam turned his head, looking at the holoform in surprise. There was something openly contemplative about his tone, as though this was something he had wanted to discuss for a while. “It’s your reading list, I’m just following along. Make whatever changes you’d like.”

The Autobot leader nodded again, seemingly deep in thought. “I would like you to begin reading the files on religious observances. They’re in the third folder.”

“Religious observances.” Sam repeated dubiously, “Can I ask why?”

The holoform suddenly stopped walking, turning to look at Sam directly. “You may ask me anything.” He replied earnestly, “I hope you know that.”

Sam was taken aback by his sincere conviction. He smiled at the Autobot leader, touched. “Yeah, I know. Thank-you.” 

Optimus stared at him for a moment longer, as though trying to ascertain his sincerity. Whatever he saw on Sam’s face seemed to appease him, for he turned and continued towards the medical bay hangar. “With Megatron’s defeat, it is possible that our civil war is finally at an end.”

Sam fell into step beside him, trying to keep the dubious look off his face, “What about Starscream? And Shockwave?”

“Starscream has proven more… receptive than I had anticipated.” Optimus intoned, “He has agreed to maintain our ceasefire if I publically acknowledge his role as Lord High Protector and Commander of Cybertron’s Armada.”

Sam snorted loudly. “You trust him?”

Optimus seemed reflective. “Starscream’s motivation has always been position and power. If he is recognized as Lord High Protector, he will have both.”

“But do you trust him to be the Lord High Protector?” He asked doubtfully, “That seems short-sighted.”

Optimus tipped his head, acknowledging the truth of Sam’s words. “Perhaps so, but Starscream has no interest in politics. He has agreed to cede power of the Senate to whomever holds the position of Prime.”

Sam glanced at him in surprise. It didn’t slip his notice that Optimus had said _to whomever holds the position of Prime_ and not _to me_. All at once, Sam had a strong suspicion that there was more going with the armistice than he had realized.

“What aren’t you telling me?” He demanded.

Optimus sighed softly. “Starscream is no fool, Sam. He is fully aware that knowledge of your existence will divide public opinion.”

“What do you mean by that?” Sam asked, trepidation tightening his gut like a vice.

Optimus looked at him, his expression remorseful but direct. “Some mecha will look at you as the second coming of the Allspark—“ Optimus held up his hand, forestalling Sam’s knee-jerk denial, “while others will perceive you as blasphemous.”

The Autobot leader’s words hit him like a physical blow. Sam stumbled to a stop, staring at him in dawning horror. “ _What_?”

“I’m sorry, Sam.” Optimus murmured, “I will do all that I can to mitigate the fallout.”

Sam knew his expression must be thunderous, “I’ve already been _murdered_ by one fanatic, and now you’re telling me there will be others?”

Optimus seemed to hesitate, as though trying to decide how forthright to be. Eventually, he said, “As a Prime, you would be a target of extremists with or without the Allspark energy in your body.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Sam exploded. 

The holoform was unflinching in the face of his anger. “I was not trying to make you feel better.” He said gently, “Rather, I was trying to impress upon you the seriousness of the situation. Starscream is well aware of the social, political, and cultural fallout that is to come, and he wants nothing to do with it. For this reason alone, I am willing to risk acknowledging his role as Lord High Protector.” 

“So it’s a win-win for you.” Sam said flatly, “An alliance with Starscream will ensure an end to the civil war, and as Lord High Protector, he would be responsible for putting down any resistance from those who are still loyal to Megatron.”

The holoform winced at him. “An alliance with Starscream is the lesser of two evils, Sam, it’s not a windfall by any stretch of the imagination.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at the Autobot leader. “This is a bad idea. Starscream won’t be happy sharing the spotlight with you for long.”

“I am under no illusions about Starscream’s motives.” Optimus stated firmly, “I fully expect that he will scheme, manipulate, bribe, and connive in an effort to increase his influence.”

“Then why are you agreeing to this?” Sam asked, incredulously. 

“Because I am capable of handling Starscream’s machinations.” Optimus replied, “And by the time he has solidified himself as Lord High Protector, he won’t be in a position to organize a coup.”

Sam frowned faintly. “What does that mean?”

Optimus sighed. “For all of his faults, Megatron was a charming and charismatic leader.” At Sam’s dubious look, the holoform smiled faintly, “It’s true, and it costs me nothing to admit it. Megatronus was a passionate orator, and people were drawn by the courage of his convictions. When he spoke about egalitarianism and the sins of the Senate, they believed him. They believed _in_ him. It’s what garnered him such a loyal following.”

“So what the hell happened?” Sam asked wryly, “Because _that_ is not the person I just spent two years with.”

Even as Sam spoke, he knew that he wasn’t being entirely honest with himself. There were times when he and Megatron had been alone, either in his quarters or walking through the ship, that the warlord had been almost personable. Sometimes, when Megatron had taken a rare moment for himself, reading poetry or histories, the silence that had fallen between them was comfortable, even companionable. It had made Megatron’s inevitable rage all the worse to bear. At the time, Sam had assumed this was by design, but now he wondered otherwise.

Optimus was silent for a moment, seeming to choose his words with care. “Megatronus suffered a loss, early in his uprising. It changed him. His motivation was no longer justice, but revenge, and he pursued it with single-minded determination. After the attack on the Senate, he became paranoid and suspicious—anyone who questioned him or his methods was labelled a threat and eliminated. It was not long before he was ruling through fear, rather than loyalty, but by then, it was already too late.”

Sam flinched at the quiet grief in Optimus’ voice. It must have been painful, watching someone that he admired descend into madness and tyranny. It was tragic, really.

Eventually, Optimus sighed. 

“Starscream is a brilliant strategist, but he is not a charismatic leader. He inspires neither loyalty nor fear among his subordinates. By the time that he has gained the legitimacy to organize a coup, he will not have the support to do so.” 

Sam bit his lip. “And if he gets the support he needs?”

“Then we may well face another civil war.” Optimus replied grimly. “I pray it does not come to that.”

Sam fell silent after that, unsure what else to say. He could see the logic in Optimus’ reasoning, although he balked at the amount of trust the Autobot leader was placing in Starscream, of all mechanoids. Still, the Seeker was nothing if not self-serving, and he stood more to gain as Optimus’ ally than Megatron’s. Sam mulled this over until the medical bay hangar came into view, and then he glanced at the holoform.

“So why change the reading list?”

Optimus seemed to come back to himself, meeting Sam’s gaze with a melancholy smile. “If this armistice means peace at long last, then I will begin as I mean to go on. It has been hundreds of thousands of years since we have celebrated any holy festivals or observed our days of worship. I intend to change that.”

“That’s wonderful, Optimus. Really. I’m looking forward to it.” Sam replied, before adding dryly, “As an observer, I mean.”

The Autobot leader chuckled good-naturedly. “You are welcome to participate as much or as little as you so choose.” 

“Well, that’s good.” Sam replied with a wry smile, “Just don’t expect me to convert--my mother would have a heart attack.”

Judy Witwicky was a lapsed Catholic, but her faith was an important part of her identity. Sam had attended mass with his parents every Christmas and Easter for eighteen years without otherwise stepping foot inside a church. He had been baptized, but other than that, religion hadn’t played a big role in his life. The irony of that fact was wasn’t lost on him.

Sam stepped into the cavernous hanger, which was a bustle of activity and noise. Ratchet and Hoist stood on either side of the far berth, working in tandem with one another. A red and black mechanoid, who Sam inferred must be Trailbreaker, lay on the platform between them. Optimus and Ultra Magnus stood on the opposite side of the hangar, next to the other two newcomers. One of them was broad-shouldered and bulky, plated entirely in army green, while the other was shorter and compact, a chassis-design similar to Jazz or Prowl. The smaller mechanoid was also plated in black and white, which furthered the likeness to their third-in-command. He crossed the room towards them, and the four mechanoids turned to regard him as he approached.

“Hi.” Sam said with an awkward wave, “It’s nice to meet you.”

The bulky green mechanoid looked from Optimus to Sam and back again, before bleating something in Cybertronian.

Optimus’ expression was faintly exasperated as he replied in English. “It is my honor to introduce Sam Witwicky, our Ambassador. Sam, this is Bulkhead, wrecker, and this is Hound, sentry.”

Bulkhead’s expression was openly dubious. He crouched down as Sam stopped a short distance away, his optics raking up and down his body. “ _You_ killed Megatron?”

Sam pushed his hands into his pockets. “Well, he didn’t exactly stay dead.”

“You?” Bulkhead repeated skeptically, poking Sam in the stomach with a blunt digit, “You can’t weigh more than a deca-byte.”

Sam sidestepped away from the offending digit. “I don’t know what that means, but I’m pretty sure I’m insulted.”

“Bulkhead.” Prime admonished disapprovingly, at the same time that Ultra Magnus explained in his usual direct manner, “Humans are very particular about tactile interaction. You must ask before you touch them.”

“That is a wise precaution.” Bulkhead acknowledged, speaking to Ultra Magnus, “They are surprisingly fleshy for such a short-lived, aggressive species.”

“Hey!” Sam protested, deeply affronted, “I am standing _right here._ ”

“Bulkhead.” Prime repeated, sharper this time, “You dishonor yourself.”

The bulky green mechanoid looked up at Optimus, as though in surprise. They stared at one another for a long moment, and Sam could tell that they were speaking on a private frequency. Eventually, Bulkhead dipped his helm in acquiescence.

“I understand, my Prime.” He said, before turning back towards Sam, “I am baffled by your species, but I intended no disrespect to you. I am aware of all that you have done for my people.” 

The bulky mechanoid fisted his servo, thumping it against his chassis as he inclined his helm. Sam stared at him, angry and embarrassed, but before he could formulate a reply, Hound whistled loudly. Sam glanced up at the black and white mechanoid, who was watching him with a smile.

“Please don’t mind him.” He said cheerfully, his voice was no longer the inflectionless drone it had been in the conference room, “Wreckers analyze everything in terms of strengths and weaknesses. There is no room left in their processors for the aesthetic appreciation of grace and form.”

Sam blinked, as taken aback by Hound’s flattery as he was of Bulkhead’s derision. The wrecker straightened to his full height, _tickety-blatting_ something rude-sounded at the sentry. Hound smiled beatifically in response, glancing back towards Sam.

“As you already know, my designation is Hound. I am honored to serve.” He said, lowering into a deep bow.

Sam looked from one mechanoid to the other, feeling completely out of his depth, when Bumblebee’s mental presence _brightened_ across their bond. He glanced towards the tunnel in abject relief, thankful for the sudden excuse to leave.

“It’s nice to meet you too.” He replied, hoping that his voice sounded reasonably sincere, “If you’ll excuse me, Bumblebee just got back. I want to meet him at the ground bridge.” 

At Optimus’ permissive nod, Sam waved good-bye before making his way towards the tunnel entrance. He only hoped that his hasty departure didn’t look too much like the retreat it was.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Thanks for your continued patience and support. It's appreciated.

Sam’s life settled into a comfortable routine over the next two weeks. He spent his mornings in the office, answering e-mails and completing his schoolwork. At noon, he took a half-hour for lunch, often in the cafeteria but occasionally at his desk, and then he worked again until the daily debriefing. Occasionally, the debriefing was followed by a senior staff meeting, which Sam also attended. Otherwise, he would make his way into the Munitions hangar for training with Jazz. The second-in-command would keep him for two hours or until Sam tapped out, whichever happened first. 

Jazz proved to be a strict and demanding instructor. He also had no qualms about the use of corporal punishment, inflicting correction in direct proportion to the size of Sam’s mistake. This usually meant a warning nudge or a stinging _rap_ , but every once and a while, the saboteur would _cuff_ him sharply across the mind and admonish him to watch himself. Sam had bitched and complained the first few times it happened, but Jazz was both unsympathetic and unyielding, and eventually, he sucked it up and dealt with it.

After training, Sam would spend a miserable few hours recovering, either in Bumblebee’s cab or back in his apartment, or, once, in the medical bay. When he felt reasonably better, he would find something to eat and then spend the rest of his evening unwinding. This usually consisted of watching television with Bumblebee or Luis, but occasionally it meant joining Bumblebee and Cliffjumper on patrol. He lived for those nights, driving with the windows down, cool desert air on his face, just the three of them.

Optimus left the embassy shortly after the skiff’s arrival, but he returned each Friday to discuss Cybertron with Sam. The first time that they met, Optimus surprised Sam in his office. The holoform took a seat across the desk from him, a strange reversal of their usual positions. They talked for over an hour, starting with the readings that Sam had completed that week, but eventually getting into the weeds about the Festival of Lost Light. The next time that they met, Optimus invited Sam into the cab of his alt-mode and they patrolled the perimeter of the base as they talked. The Autobot leader seemed melancholy that afternoon, and Sam suspected the drive was as much for Optimus as it was for him.

Karen Anderson also accompanied Optimus when he came to the base on Fridays. She and Sam would meet in an empty office near Logistics for an hour, either before or after Sam’s meeting with Optimus. Karen always began their session on safe ground, asking about Sam’s schoolwork or his training with Jazz, but she inevitably steered them towards more difficult topics. Sam was defensive and standoffish or sullen and moody, depending on the day. To her credit, Karen never missed a beat, either doubling down or backing off based on Sam’s reaction. Afterwards, they walked together back to the ground bridge hangar and Sam would see her off.

Despite the physically demanding nature of training, the tedium of schoolwork, and the abject _strangeness_ of being a public figurehead, Sam enjoyed the embassy. He felt comfortable, normal even, in a way that he hadn’t felt in years. As the days turned to weeks and there was still no sign of the remaining Decepticons, Sam began to relax.

Later, he would realize that allowing himself to grow complacent had been his first mistake. 

* * *

The Tuesday morning before the Canadian delegation’s arrival was a lazy one. Sam woke slowly, drifting in that soft place between fully awake and fully asleep. When he eventually squinted open his eyes, it was to find himself sprawled over Bumblebee’s holoform, his head on his chest and their legs tangled together under the blankets. When he realized that Sam was fully awake, Bumblebee smiled at him.

“Good morning.” He said, fingers ghosting over Sam’s back, “You slept well.” 

“Morning.” Sam murmured, “What time is it?”

“It’s just after nine.” Bumblebee replied, earning himself a drawn-out groan.

“Cancel today, would you? I don’t want to get out of bed.” 

Bumblebee chuckled at him. “I’ll get right on that.”

Sam hummed approvingly, pulling the covers up to his chin and tucking his face into the holoform’s chest. Bumblebee indulged him, carding his fingers through Sam’s hair as he relaxed. They laid together for the better part of twenty minutes before Sam couldn’t ignore the call of nature any longer. Grumbling under his breath, he climbed out of bed and made his way into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. By the time that he stepped back into the living space a few moments later, Bumblebee had already made coffee. The fragrant smell of Veradana blend light roast filled the little apartment.

“Have I told you recently that you’re the best?” Sam asked, padding towards the kitchenette on bare feet.

The holoform quirked a smile from where he stood beside the counter, “It never hurts to be reminded.”

Sam grinned at him, opening the cupboards and pulling down a bowl and a package of instant oatmeal. He emptied the packet into the bowl, adding the recommended amount of water and popping it into the microwave. “What’re you doing today?”

“I’m standing sentry with Hound until patrol.” Bumblebee replied.

Both Hound and Bulkhead had been assigned to the embassy, rather than Diego Garcia—Hound because Trailbreaker was his partner and the sentry was loath to leave him while he was still in stasis-lock, and Bulkhead because the wrecker was uneasy around people. The arrangement seemed to suit them both just fine.

“Anything interesting happening?” Sam asked, opening the microwave.

“Nope.” Bumblebee replied dryly, “Although Hound would disagree with me. There’s a pronghorn antelope herd grazing a hundred feet from the perimeter fence, so he’s having quite the day.”

Sam laughed, stirring sugar into his oatmeal and taking a bite. Hound had an effusive love for wildlife, and his enthusiasm was catching. He and Sam had spent one afternoon birdwatching together after the sentry had first arrived, and it had been surprisingly enjoyable. They had spotted a Mississippi Kite and a Pileated Woodpecker, which Hound had promptly shared on a birding website. Apparently, it had created quite the buzz in the ornithology community. Hound was very proud.

“Tell him I said hello.” Sam mumbled around a mouthful of oatmeal.

“I will.” Bumblebee replied. “Are you heading down to the office?” 

Sam nodded, spooning up some more oatmeal. “Yeah, I am. My suit’s being delivered sometime this morning. I want to be there to pick it up.”

The dinner reception in Jasper was going to be a formal affair. In addition to Ambassador Blanchard and his staff, the Governor of Nevada and the Mayors of Las Vegas and Reno were going to attend. Dave Carter had informed him, in no uncertain terms, that the suit he owned wasn’t going to cut it. The personal assistant had ordered him something more appropriate to wear, his words, and the end-result was being couriered to the embassy. Sam hadn’t even seen the suit before it had been ordered. Carter had tried to ask his preferences for cut, fabric, and style, but Sam didn’t know the first thing about men’s fashion. The only stipulation he gave Carter was, “Something dark, I guess. Nothing too fancy.” 

Sam finished the rest of his oatmeal, rinsing out the bowl and setting it in the sink. He dressed quickly, pulling on his clothes in front of the closet, and then he took five minutes to wash his face and brush his teeth. By the time that he was ready to head downstairs, Bumblebee had to leave. Sam gave him a kiss good-bye, before bending down to pull on his shoes. By the time that Sam straightened up, grabbing his messenger bag and travel mug, the holoform was gone. 

He pulled open the front door, stepping into the hallway. The residential section was reminiscent of a renovated hotel, with walnut-colored doors spaced in even increments and dark carpets that contrasted with the patterned wallpaper. Sam made his way down the hall towards the security entrance that was just visible around the corner. The residential section was quiet, given the hour, and Sam pushed through the heavy doors a moment later. The sounds of the administration section echoed up the stairwell, and Sam took the steps two at a time. When he rounded the corner of the large, cement staircase, he saw Luis standing by the cafeteria entrance. The lieutenant was engaged in conversation with an older man in a custodial uniform. There was something conspiratorial about the way they stood, with their bodies close and heads together. Sam canted his head to the side, eyebrow quirked up as he approached. Luis broke off the conversation, an easy smile on his face.

“Good morning, Sam.” He said, before glancing at the other man, “Thanks Ted, I appreciate it.”

Ted nodded at Luis before looking at Sam, a knowing smile on his face. The older man winked at him before grasping the handle of his cleaning cart, pushing it in front of him as he walked away. Sam watched him go, baffled by the strange interaction.

“What was that all about?” He asked.

Luis laughed good-naturedly. “Nothing. Ted owes me a favor. What’re you up to this morning?”

Sam glanced back at the lieutenant, who was dressed in civvies rather than his uniform. “Work. The usual. What about you?”

“I’m headed into town. I’ll walk with you to your office, c’mon.” Luis said, tipping his head in the direction of the hallway. They fell into step beside one another, making their way deeper into the administrative section. When Sam got to his office, there was an envelope taped to his door. He pulled it down, pressing his identification badge against the reader set in the wall. The device blinked green, and then the locking mechanism disengaged with an audible _click_. Sam pushed open the door, flicking on the lights and setting his bag on the desk. He turned the envelope over in his hands, noticing his name in Donna’s tidy scrawl written across the flap. Curious, Sam tore open the envelope and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Unfolding it, he found what appeared to be a purchase invoice on an elegant letterhead from a company called Hall Madden Custom Suits in Los Angeles. Sam’s eyes skipped over the budget lines, getting progressively wider as he noted the individual prices. When he saw the final cost, his heart almost stopped beating in his chest.

“I’m going to kill Dave Carter.” Sam managed, faintly.

Luis grinned at him from where he stood leaning against the doorframe. “What is it?”

Wordlessly, Sam handed the purchase invoice to the other man. Luis accepted the piece of paper, glancing down at it. A moment later, he whistled, long and low. “ _Mierda_. That must be some suit.”

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb, accepting the invoice back with his other hand. It wasn’t that he couldn’t afford it, he had been receiving a salary since he started working again, but that wasn’t the point. Who paid _three thousand dollars_ for a suit? He gathered himself with no small effort, hand dropping away as he pinned Luis with a sardonic look. “I told him nothing fancy.”

“Well, the cost includes all the accruements.” Luis said, grinning.

“Not helpful.” Sam replied dryly, glancing down at the invoice again. “A hundred dollars for a tie? It had better be plated in gold.”

Luis laughed out loud, shaking his head. “Sorry, Sammy. I guess Carter wants you to make an impression.”

“Don’t call me that.” Sam said absentmindedly, re-reading the invoice again. Suit jacket, slacks, three shirts, three ties. His eyes narrowed as he noticed the fifty-dollar charge for the garment bag. He made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat, tossing the invoice on the desk. “I’ll deal with Carter later. I’ll walk with you to reception, let’s go.”

Luis stepped into the hallway and Sam followed after him, pulling the door shut behind him. They made their way down the hall, taking several corners before the lobby came into sight. Donna glanced up as he approached, a knowing smile curling the corners of her mouth. Either his irritation was plain to see or Carter had given her a heads-up.

“Good morning, Mr. Ambassador.” She said, standing to retrieve a cream-colored garment bag from where it lay draped over the back of a chair, “I’ve been asked to inform you that the cost of the suit is being expensed to the general budget line.”

For some reason, that fact only nettled him further. He accepted the garment bag, folding it over his arm. “Thank-you Donna. Please tell Carter I want it expensed to my account. Prime’s not paying for this.”

Maybe the fact that Sam was paying for the suit himself would dissuade Dave from spending so much money the next time that he bought something on Sam’s behalf. Donna nodded at him, resuming her seat behind the semi-circular reception desk. Sam turned, glancing at Luis who stood a short distance away. “How’re you getting to town?”

Luis’ expression became openly sardonic. “It’s called a car. Granted, it doesn’t transform, but it still gets me from A to B.” 

Sam rolled his eyes at the other man, “Smartass. I didn’t know you had a car.”

“I’m just full of surprises.” Luis replied dryly, pushing off the wall, “I’ve got to go. See you later?”

“Yeah, sure.” Sam replied, “Drive safe.”

He made his way back to the office, hanging the garment bag on the hook behind the door. He didn’t have the mental fortitude to look at it, so he sat at his desk instead, booting up the computer. He unscrewed the cover to his travel mug, taking a sip of the steaming coffee before placing it safely out of the way. He opened his e-mail client, noticing the 32 new messages he had received since last night. His gaze settled on an e-mail near the top of his Inbox, time-stamped 6:42 AM and addressed from Hound. He clicked on it, unsurprised and amused to find a half-a-dozen pictures of the notorious pronghorn herd. There were a dozen or so antelope grazing on the scrubby brush a short distance from the perimeter fence. Their tan and white pelts stood out against the red sand, a distant mesa rising in the background. It was a nice picture, and Sam fired off a quick reply to the same effect. Then, he settled down to tackle the rest of the e-mails. He opened the oldest one, timestamped shortly after he had left the office the previous night.

He worked through lunch, stopping only to use the bathroom. He poked his head into the mailroom on his way back to the office, surprised to find that his little cubby was stuffed full of envelopes and a small, brown box. Sam gathered it up, glancing at the package. A delighted smile spread across his face as he noticed the return address: _Althea White, 421 Sonora Road, Ferndale, California._ He hurried back to his office, pushing the door shut behind him and tossing the assortment of envelopes and memos onto the desk. He sat down, using a letter opening to cut through the tape. His throat closed up in emotion as he pulled two birthday cards out of the box. He opened them one at a time, reading the note that his grandmother had written for his twentieth birthday and then for his twenty-first. He could barely see the words through the tears that blurred his vision. She signed each one as she always did, _“Love, Nanny”_ with an ‘x’ and an ‘o’ for every year that he was old. 

He set the cards aside, thumbing the tears out of his eyes and glancing back inside the box. She had included an assortment of things in the care package—there was a hand-knitted scarf, soft and navy blue, a little bag of oatmeal-chocolate chip cookies, and a $20 gift card to her favorite diner in Ferndale. Sam’s lips twitched up in amusement at the obvious hint, and then he pulled the last item out of the box. It was a 4x6 glossy picture of his grandmother, standing in front of her little Christmas tree. The picture had a thick red border and the words “Christmas 2019” stenciled at the top. Sam stared at the picture for a long time, trying to swallow against the emotion thickening his throat. He made a promise to himself then and there that he would speak with her as soon as he could, in person preferably, but if not, then by telephone. There was nothing stopping him anymore.

He set the two cards up on his desk and propped the picture against the base of his computer monitor. Then he opened the patterned cellophane bag, pulling out a cookie and taking a bite. It was soft and crumbly, the perfect blend of sweet and salty. His eyes fluttered shut in appreciation. No one made cookies like his grandmother. He ate slowly, savoring every bite and washing them down with lukewarm coffee. He saved two cookies for later, wrapping them up and tucking them into his messenger bag.

He glanced at the clock when he finished—it almost time for the debriefing. Sam finished the last of his coffee, before tidying up his desk and powering off his computer. He made his way to the washroom first, rinsing out his mug and tucking it into his bag, and then he used the toilet. Kevin from Finance was standing at the sinks when he finished, and they nodded to one another as they washed their hands. The older man held the door for him as they stepped back into the hall, and then they made their way to the conference room together.

The debriefing was shorter than usual. They spent half-an-hour going over a few last minute details for the Canadian delegation’s visit. Sam learned that the reception was being held in a private room of _Provence_ , an upscale Italian restaurant, and he wondered idly whether Optimus was trying to make a good impression. He wasn’t sure why the Autobot leader would put in such an effort. They had already had good relations with the Canadians. 

After the last minute details were ironed out, they spoke briefly about a charity event that was taking place in Las Vegas in the fall. Sam sincerely doubted that he would be going himself, but he listened all the same. After that, Ultra Magnus called the meeting to an end and Sam gathered up his things. He was going to be early for training, but that was fine. He liked hanging out in the hangar.

He nodded to Ultra Magnus and then he made his way out of the conference room. He dug the package of cookies out of his bag, eating them as he strolled through Logistics. By the time that he stepped onto the metal scaffold, he had finished the last of them. The hangar was quiet today, with only Ratchet standing near his workbench. The medic glanced in his direction as Sam started down the stairs, his footsteps ringing against the metal.

“My grandmother sent me a care package.” Sam said as he approached, hands in his pockets.

“Yes, I know. You seemed very happy.” Ratchet replied, turning back towards his work.

“I was.” Sam agreed, stopping a short distance away, “I want to see her. She’s not far.”

“I am sure something can be arranged.” Ratchet said, before glancing down at him, “Your feelings for her are… profound.”

Sam’s lips turned up in a wry smile. “Nannies are precious. They’re to be cherished at all costs.”

The medic ex-vented a snort, but his mental presence seemed contemplative. “Your attachment to her is different than your parents. Why so?”

“I don’t know, it just is.” Sam replied with a shrug, “Dad was the authoritative one, Ma fussed over me, and Nanny spoiled me rotten. It’s what grandmothers do.”

Ratchet seemed to consider this. “Your grandfather, was he also an authority figure?”

Sam huffed an amused laugh. “No way. Nanny ruled that house with an iron first before Pops died. He was a quiet guy, liked fly fishing and oil painting. His den smelled like old books and cigarettes. It probably still does.”

Ratchet crouched down in front of him, extending a servo towards him. Sam climbed on and the medic straightened up, setting Sam on the nearest berth. Trailbreaker lay two berths away, still and quiet except for the faint _whirr_ of his inner workings. When Sam glanced back at Ratchet, it was to see him staring down at him with a thoughtful expression on his face. “How old were you when he died?”

The question caught Sam by surprise and he frowned faintly. “I was seven or eight, I don’t remember exactly. I’m sure it’s in a database somewhere if you really want to know.” A familiar feeling of grief crept in on him, although it had softened over time. “He died from cancer. It runs in my mom’s family. My Aunt Emily died from it when she was only forty-two years old.”

“I’m sorry.” Ratchet replied gruffly, almost uncomfortably, but his sympathy wasn’t forced.

“I didn’t really know her. She lived on the east coast, I only ever saw her at Christmas.” Sam said, bringing himself back to the present with a mental shake. “Anyway, I want to see my grandmother. You’d like her, I think. She’s super dry and bossy, just like you.”

Ratchet ex-vented a sharp snort and Sam grinned up at him unapologetically. The medic turned back towards his workbench without another word, and Sam settled down on the berth. It was true that Ratchet and his grandmother would probably get along—either that or they’d kill each other, there was really no middle ground.

Sam pulled the datapad out of his bag, turning it on and navigating to the text-file he was currently reading. It was a collection of religious stories, fables and parables mostly. He balanced the datapad on his lap, munching on some trail mix as he read. He had just finished one story and was about to begin another when he felt Bumblebee’s mental presence drawing nearer. He glanced towards the corridor and it wasn’t long before he could hear the rumble of engines. He _brushed_ against the winter-white glow in greeting and Bumblebee pressed back affectionately. Soon, the yellow Camaro pulled into the hangar, followed by a matte-black Jeep Wrangler, a Pontiac Solstice, and a sleek blue Kawasaki Ninja. The four vehicles slowed to a stop, transforming into their bipedal modes in a flurry of shifting metal.

Sam set the datapad aside, pushing to his feet and stepping to the edge of the berth. Bumblebee moved close, running a digit down the length of Sam’s spine as he whistled at him affectionately.

“Hey you.” Sam murmured, giving one of his faceplates a playful tug. “How was work?”

“It was wonderful.” Hound answered, propping an elbow on the berth and leaning his weight against it, “Twelve antelope, three jackrabbits—“

“And a partridge in a pear tree?” Sam finished amusedly.

“There are no pear trees in Nevada.” Hound replied, confusion coloring his voice. Arcee smirked as she approached, arms folded over her chassis. Sam smiled at him ruefully.

“It’s a song, Hound. _The_ _Twelve Days of Christmas._ ” He explained.

Hound’s optics narrowed down to points, and then a moment later, irised open again. “Christmas carols, my goodness. How charming.”

Sam huffed a good-natured laugh. “Yeah, they’re nice. My favorite’s _Good King Wenceslas_.”

Hound nodded definitively, as though this fact fit neatly with what he already knew about Sam. Before the black and white Autobot could comment further, Jazz stepped up to the berth. “Afternoon, Hoss. How’re you feeling after last night?”

Sam smiled wryly. Jazz had introduced him to the concept of pen-testing yesterday afternoon, and it had been a particularly challenging session. “You didn’t scare me off, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Hound sidestepped out of Jazz’s way, making room for the second-in-command. As Jazz took his place, the sentry ambled over to Trailbreaker’s berth, whistling softly at the prone mechanoid.

“That’s good, because we’ll be doing more of the same today. You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” Sam replied, lowering down to sit cross-legged on the berth. He dropped his firewalls without being told, staring up at Jazz as he waited for directions. Pen-testing was a means of slipping past the mental defenses of another mechanoid. It required skill, finesse, and control—three things that Sam was sorely lacking.

“Alright, I’m using a low-level filtering firewall. Go ahead.” Jazz instructed.

Sam huffed a breath as he considered the indigo-colored glow in front of him. Although it looked no differently than it had a moment ago, Sam knew that Jazz had replaced his usual firewalls with something simpler for him to work on. He reached out, brushing against it. The spark signature felt faintly warm and tingly—the latter sensation, Sam knew, was from the filter that Jazz was using. He ghosted over its surface, trying to find a chink in its armor. After several minutes of looking, Sam made a frustrated noise and glanced up at the second-in-command.

“Is there even anything to find?” He asked sarcastically. He had learned the hard way that Jazz often changed the rules without telling him.

“Yes.” Jazz replied patiently. “You need to focus. An enemy combatant isn’t going to throw open the doors for you.”

Sam snorted softly, turning his attention back towards the neural-network. He smoothed over the glowing node, trying to find any blemish in its surface texture or appearance, but he couldn’t find a thing.

“You’re being too cursory.” Arcee informed him matter-of-factly, “Take your time. Pen-testing is about finesse, not speed.”

Sam didn’t reply, narrowing his eyes in concentration as he tried to follow her instructions. His entire world narrowed down to the indigo-colored glow in front of him. It felt like a long time before he finally found it, a miniscule divot in the surface of the firewall.

“Got it.” He said.

“Good job.” Jazz replied, “Now try getting past my defenses.”

Sam glanced up at him in surprise. In all the time that they had worked together, there had been one immutable rule: don’t press in. “Are you sure?”

Jazz looked back at him expectantly. “Yes, Sam. I’m sure. Surface-level intrusion only. Go ahead.”

Sam shrugged, turning his attention inwards and focusing on the divot. He pressed in, like applying pressure to the shell of an egg. Nothing happened. He narrowed his eyes, pressing harder. Still, nothing happened.

He glanced uncertainly up at Jazz. “Am I doing it right?”

The second-in-command nodded encouragingly. “Put your back into it. You aren’t going to hurt me, I’ve got you.”

Sam took a deep breath, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. Gathering himself, he tried again, applying a steadily building pressure to the divot until, at last, it gave way—or rather, until he slipped through. The filter itself remained in place. He could feel the surface-level of Jazz’s mind, a muted combination of _thought_ and _emotion_ and _sensation_. A moment later, he found himself back on the neural-network.

“Good job, Sam.” Jazz praised, holding his servo up for a high-five. Sam huffed a weary-sounding laugh, pressing his palm against the cool metal. The saboteur smiled in response. “Now go again, faster this time.”

Sam took a deep breath, exhaling through pursed lips, and then he obeyed. Jazz and Arcee gave him instructions as he worked, correcting his technique as required. By the third time that Sam was dumped back onto the neural-network, he thought he was getting the hang of it. Jazz flashed a razor-sharp grin at him as soon as the thought crossed his mind.

“Well then, we’ll just have to try something a little harder.” He said, nodding to him, “Go ahead. You’re on the clock.”

Sam rubbed his face into the crook of his arm, wiping the sweat out of his eyes. “What do I get if I win?”

Jazz rumbled a good-natured laugh. “Bragging rights.”

“I’d prefer cash, thanks.” Sam replied dryly, turning his attention back towards the neural-network. This time when he approached the indigo-colored glow, however, it darted away from him. He rolled his eyes with enough force to set off a pounding headache, “There’s always something.”

“There’s always something.” Jazz agreed. “Better hurry, the clock’s ticking.”

The saboteur’s serene tone goaded Sam and he narrowed his eyes in response. He could feel Bumblebee’s amusement and Ratchet’s scrutiny, but he pushed the sensations away to focus on giving chase. He could tell that Jazz wasn’t actually trying to outpace him—Sam caught up with him easily enough—but the second-in-command was definitely making him work for it. He braced his hands against his knees, grounding himself as he reached for Jazz’s signature. He could tell at once that the second-in-command wasn’t using a simple filter. The indigo-glow prickled against his mind like static electricity. The knowledge that Jazz had added another layer of complication to their game irritated Sam to his core.

“Pay attention.” Jazz interrupted his thoughts, _nudging_ him disapprovingly.

Sam gritted his teeth, focusing all of his attention inwards. It was only a moment before he found what he was looking for—a tiny imperfection against the otherwise smooth surface of the spark signature. Sam felt a rush of triumph as he gathered himself up, applying pressure against the divot. At first, nothing happened. Then, remembering how he had gotten through Blitzwing’s defenses, Sam narrowed his mental presence like the point of a blade, and slid in hard and fast.

Three things happened in quick succession.

First, he felt a directionless swell of _surprise_ and _alarm_ and _pain_ as he found himself deep inside Jazz’s processors. Sam was completely disoriented, with no sense of _up_ or _down_. He felt Bumblebee and Ratchet shift forward, scrambling for him, but they never got the chance. At the same time, something slammed into Sam’s mind with the force of a wrecking ball. His vision exploded in a riot of light and color, and then everything cut to black.

* * *

Ratchet watched Sam’s eyes roll back in his head as he collapsed against the berth. He pushed Arcee aside, his holoform materializing beside Sam as the boy started convulsing. Ratchet was aware of Jazz, bent over and ex-venting sharply, but he seemed none the worse for wear. His boundary protection protocols had mediated the brunt of Sam’s unwitting attack.

At the same time, Bumblebee’s holoform materialized at Sam’s side. His hands flew to the boy’s shoulders, pressing him down against the berth.

“Let go of him.” Ratchet snapped harshly, and Bumblebee jerked away as though he had been scalded. The medic guided Sam onto his side, cushioning his head with a folded square of metalmesh. He watched the timer on his primary visual display as the seconds ticked by. As the one-minute mark passed with no signs of the seizure abating, his spark clenched in its casing and he moved to prepare the gurney. His sensors were providing a constant stream of data about Sam’s blood pressure, heart rate, body temperature, and oxygen saturation that caused a cascade of warnings to flash across his visual display. Ratchet shunted them aside for the moment, composing a brief message to Hoist and flagging it with high-priority signifiers. 

As Ratchet quickly and efficiently arranged the equipment that he might need, he became aware of the simmering tension in the room. The others stood around the berth, watching in silence as Sam convulsed against the polished metal. Their overlapping electromagnetic fields were awash with _concern_ and _anxiety_ and _guilt_. Ratchet looked sharply over his shoulder.

“Get out, all of you. I will keep you informed.”

No one argued with him. Jazz, Hound, and Arcee transformed, accelerating across the hangar and disappearing down the far tunnel. Bumblebee didn’t move from where he stood at Sam’s side. Ratchet joined him a moment later, staring down at Sam as he finally stopped seizing.

 **2:17:01**. A long seizure, but not as bad as it could have been.

Sam moaned softly, his eyelids fluttering as he came back around. His mental presence was sluggish and disoriented, his thoughts slipping away as soon as they entered his mind, disappearing like water through a sieve. Through it all, Sam’s neural connections _burned_ from the after-effects of Jazz’s counter-attack. Ratchet grimaced internally. It had been a brutal blow.

His holoform crouched down, brushing the sweaty hair away from Sam’s forehead.

“Sam?” He murmured, “Can you open your eyes for me?” The boy’s head lolled to the side, and Ratchet gently took his face in his hands. “Sam?”

Slowly, Sam squinted open his eyes. His gaze was unfocused and dazed, but his pupils were equal and reactive. He pushed weakly at Ratchet’s holoform, broadcasting a tumultuous mixture of confusion and fear across their bond.

“You’re alright.” Ratchet soothed, “You’ve had a seizure. Can you sit up for me?”

His words washed over Sam’s mind without a flicker of comprehension in response. Ratchet ex-vented a quiet sigh, reaching for the boy with both servos. Sam recoiled with a weak moan, and the medic could tell that it was pain, not fear, that motivated his actions.

“It’s alright, you’re safe.” Ratchet said gently, “You’ll be more comfortable on the gurney. Would you prefer if Bumblebee helped you?” He asked, gesturing towards the scout. Bumblebee whistled softly at the boy, presenting his servos towards him.

“Don’t touch me.” Sam rasped, pleadingly.

Ratchet ex-vented another sigh, knowing full well what he must do.

“If you remember any of this, then know that I am sorry.” Ratchet said gruffly, earning a sharp look from Bumblebee. He could tell that his words had no effect on Sam, who was lying with his face pressed against the berth. Ratchet shifted into the boy’s mind, ignoring the sharp flare of surprise and confusion. Thankfully, Sam was still so disoriented that he had no idea what was happening, and between one moment and the next, he was deep in stasis. Ratchet initiated a medical scan, conducting a thorough check of his condition. When the analysis returned only a handful of low-level alerts, his optics flicked towards Bumblebee.

“He’ll be fine. A week in stasis, perhaps more, but there should be no adverse effects.”

Bumblebee nodded, before turning to meet the medic’s gaze. His expression was openly troubled. “How was he able to do that?”

Ratchet gathered Sam up in his servos, stepping around the berth to lay him on the gurney. The boy’s face was waxy and pale against the stark cotton sheets. “I don’t know.” He eventually admitted.

The scout’s electromagnetic field roiled with apprehension and concern. “Ratchet—“

“Enough.” Ratchet cut him off sharply, “This is not the time for speculation. We will discuss the matter with Jazz after I have tended to Sam. You will assist me until Hoist arrives.”

Bumblebee’s optics roved over Ratchet’s face for a moment longer and then he nodded in acceptance.

“Good.” Ratchet replied tersely, “Remove his clothes and wash him off. I’ll prepare the IV and Foley catheter. Mind his mouth—he bit his tongue when he started seizing.”

Bumblebee nodded again, his holoform materializing at Sam’s side. Ratchet watched as he unbuttoned the boy’s shirt, sliding the material over his shoulders with infinite care. He took off his shoes next, untying the laces and pulling them off his feet. The holoform talked to Sam as he worked, his voice pitched low and soothing. As he began to pull off the boy’s sodden jeans, Ratchet’s holoform took shape next to the IV stand. He hung a bag of fluids, unspooling the tubing and preparing the cannula. As he worked, Ratchet’s attention was focused on the Creator bond, ever vigilant for the slightest indication of distress. That he felt nothing did little to assuage the concern that gripped Ratchet’s spark like a vice.


	20. Chapter 20

Sam squinted open his eyes, groaning softly as he came around. Rather than the ceiling of his apartment, he found himself staring up at a great cement dome that curved above him. He lay there for a long moment, trying to gain his bearings. Eventually, and with great effort, he lifted his head to look down at himself. He was lying on a hospital bed with heavy blankets pulled up to his armpits. The space beyond the bed was cast in shadows, making it difficult to see where he was. He raised a hand to scrub the grit out of his eyes, but the movement was arrested by the pull of an IV. He frowned down at it, bewildered.

_What the ever-loving fuck?_

Instinctively, Sam turned his attention inwards. The Creator bond was dark and silent—he couldn’t feel anything of Ratchet’s familiar presence. Thoroughly confused, although not yet alarmed, Sam reached for Bumblebee. He could just feel the scout’s presence, a distant pinprick of light across their bond space.

There was a soft chirrup to his right, pulling Sam back to himself. He turned his head and came face-to-face with Trailbreaker. The bulky mechanoid was lying on the next berth, looking at him curiously. All at once, Sam realized that he was in the makeshift medical bay in the Munitions hangar. The knowledge caused him to tense from head to toe—he had no memory of whatever calamity had landed him there.

“It’s alright, Sam.” Hoist rumbled reassuringly, “That’s not unusual.”

Sam turned his head, angling it up to see Hoist standing at his side. The gray medical build was watching him closely, his expression one of professional concern. “How do you feel?”

“Confused.” Sam rasped. His voice was like desert gravel. 

“I would imagine so.” Hoist replied with a touch of amusement, “I was referring, however, to your physical condition.”

Sam furrowed his brow, considering the question. His body felt strange, heavy and leaden, as though it had been incased in cement. His mind was similarly muddled; he couldn’t seem to hold a thought in his head for more than a few seconds. He grimaced deeply, recognizing the symptoms for what they were—the aftereffects of stasis. 

“I’m fine.” Sam managed to reply, “Can I have some water?”

Hoist made an agreeable noise as he stepped out of Sam’s line of sight. He returned a moment later, extending a cup towards him. Sam accepted it gratefully, fingers curling around the pink plastic. He took a tentative sip, letting the water coat his mouth before he swallowed. The cool liquid soothed his throat all the way down. 

“Ratchet will be pleased by your progress.” Hoist said, watching him closely.

“Where is he?” Sam asked, making to push himself into a sitting position. Hoist’s holoform was suddenly at his side, helping him up. At the same time, Hoist bent down, adjusting the head of the bed so that it angled up behind him. The holoform helped him reposition the pillows, before guiding him to lean back against the mattress.

“Ratchet is on his way, he’ll be here shortly.” Hoist replied.

Sam took another drink of water, before setting the plastic cup on the overbed table and fixing Hoist with a flat stare. “Alright, what happened?”

“You happened.” Jazz replied dryly, causing Sam to startle in surprise. The second-in-command materialized from the shadows, as silent as a wraith.

“Come again?” Sam asked, frowning. 

“What do you remember?” Jazz asked, stepping closer. 

Sam’s frown deepened. He had fleeting memories from his time in stasis, but there was nothing tangible. He cast his mind back further, looking for an explanation, but the last thing that he could remember was talking with Ratchet. He glanced up at Jazz, shaking his head as a deep sense of unease settled in his gut. He couldn’t remember a thing to explain his current circumstances.

“Impairments in memory are common after a prolonged seizure.” Hoist said, directing his words to Jazz.

“Seizure?” Sam asked sharply, looking up at the medic, “What do you mean _seizure_?”

“There was an incident during training.” Jazz replied instead, scrutinizing him. “You were injured as a result.”

As Jazz spoke, the Creator bond _brightened_ with Ratchet’s mental presence. The medic immediately smoothed over Sam’s mind, his touch clinical rather than affectionate. Sam bore the mental pat-down with strained patience, glancing back at Jazz.

“What happened?” Sam asked. 

“You can pack quite a punch when you want to.” Jazz replied dryly, “It was my fault. I should have prepared for every contingency and I didn’t.”

As Jazz spoke, the rumble of Ratchet’s engines echoed down the tunnel, growing louder as the medic approached. Sam turned his head in time to see the Search and Rescue Hummer roll into the hangar, his headlights cutting through the darkness. Ratchet drove to the edge of the alcove and stopped, transforming in one fluid motion. As soon as the last panel slotted into place, the medic stepped up to the side of his berth.

“I should have known that you’d come around the moment I was called away.” Ratchet groused.

Sam managed not to roll his eyes, but the temptation was there. “Sorry. I’ll try not to inconvenience you next time.”

Ratchet ex-vented a snort, folding his arms over his chassis as he initiated a medical scan. Sam pulled a face as the familiar feeling of pins-and-needles swept him from head to toe. Whatever the medic found seemed to satisfy him, for Ratchet’s voice was sardonic when he said, “Well, you are none the worse for wear after your ordeal. You should have something to eat, it’s been eight days.”

Sam grimaced at the confirmation that he had been in stasis. He put the thought aside to panic about later, raising his head to look Ratchet in the face. “I had a seizure?”

“You did.” Ratchet acknowledged, “A generalized tonic-clonic seizure.”

Sam made an exasperated noise in the back of his throat. “I don’t know what that means.” 

Ratchet’s expression was uncharacteristically tolerant as he replied. “You and Jazz were working on penetration testing when you managed to breach his defenses. His boundary protection protocols responded to the intrusion, and as a result, your neural connections were damaged. You seized for two minutes and seventeen seconds, but thankfully, there seem to be no lasting effects.” 

Sam was silent for a long moment, taking in what he had been told. Eventually, he looked quizzically at Jazz. “I don’t understand. How’d I do it?”

“A little bit of natural aptitude and a whole lot of pure, dumb luck.” Jazz replied wryly, “I underestimated you. I shouldn’t have.”

Sam had the distinct impression that Jazz wasn’t being entirely forthright with him. He frowned, fully prepared to pester a better explanation out of him, when Ratchet ex-vented a sharp snort.

“That’s enough. You haven’t slept in eight days, get some rest while you wait for your meal.”

Tired and emotionally strung-out though he was, Ratchet’s tone still needled him. Sam lifted his chin, opening his mouth to argue back, when Hoist _chirruped_ at him gently.

“Are you cold? Would you like another blanket?” He asked.

Sam turned his head, glancing at the medic in surprise. “Uh, no. No, I’m good.”

“Are you sure? The ambient temperature is only eleven degrees Celsius.” Hoist asked, helm tipped to the side.

It was true that it was cool inside the hangar, but his bed had been layered with an impressive assortment of linens and coverings. He was perfectly warm as a result.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Sam replied slowly, “Thanks though.”

Jazz whistled amusedly in Hoist’s direction. The medic waved him off, delicately pinching the plastic cup on the overbed table between two digits and bringing it towards him. “Here, finish this.”

Sam accepted the cup, feeling flustered and off-balance. Hoist watched him with an expectant expression, and when Sam raised the cup to his lips, the medic nodded approvingly. As soon as he drank the rest of his water, Hoist refilled the cup and set it back on the overbed table.

“Are you comfortable? Or would you prefer I recline the mattress?”

“I’m fine.” Sam replied. Then, a thought occurred to him and he glanced at Ratchet, “Hey, what’s with the new bed? What happened to the gurney?”

The medic made a dismissive sound deep inside his intakes. “It was a necessary expense. You injure yourself often enough that the gurney was no longer sufficient for your needs.”

Sam rolled his eyes, unsure whether to be appreciative or offended. Ratchet crossed the alcove towards the workbench in the corner without another word. At the same time, Hoist moved to stand next to Trailbreaker’s berth. The medic leaned down, murmuring something to the prone Autobot, who nodded jerkily in response. Sam watched with growing curiosity as Hoist unspooled his medical cable, jacking into the port on Trailbreaker’s arm. The strategist ex-vented in relief as soon as the hardline connected.

He watched Hoist work for a moment longer and then there was an admonishing touch inside his mind.

 _//Rest.//_ Ratchet instructed.

Sam sighed, no longer having the energy to argue. He shifted against the mattress, pulling the blankets up to his shoulders as he tried to get comfortable. The hospital bed was an improvement over the gurney, but it was still a hospital bed. Eventually, Sam found himself curled up on his side with his nose tucked into the blankets. He drifted for a while, listening to Ratchet and Hoist as they worked. The steady hum of their hydraulics and the repetitive push-pull of air being cycled through their vents were familiar, comforting sounds.

Sam didn’t even realize that he had fallen to sleep until he was gently shaken awake. He blinked open his eyes to the sight of Bumblebee’s holoform standing at his bedside. His bipedal mode was crouched down a short distance away. Sam tossed them both a sleepy smile.

“Hello you.”

“Hello.” The holoform replied, bending down to press a chaste kiss to the corner of Sam’s mouth, “I brought your lunch. Can you sit up?”

Sam pushed himself into a sitting position, causing the blankets to slide off his shoulders. Immediately, the cool air of the hangar caused gooseflesh to break out over his skin. He shivered, pulling the blankets back up to his armpits as Bumblebee placed several take-away containers on the overbed table. He leaned forward as the holoform pulled the top off one container, revealing a cup of steaming soup. Sam’s eyebrows drifted closer to his hairline as the aromatic smell of chicken and spices reached his nose.

“Hey, that actually smells edible.” He said, reaching for the spoon that Bumblebee held out to him.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Bumblebee replied dryly, “It’s from a place in town that everyone’s talking about.”

Sam smiled as he pulled the overbed table towards him. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Bumblebee chirped at him, the antennae on his helm perking up, but otherwise he did not reply. Sam spooned up some soup, taking a bite, and almost groaned in appreciation. The broth was rich and fragrant, spiced with just the right amount of parsley and thyme. He brought another spoonful to his mouth before glancing up at the scout and uttering four words that he never thought he’d say: “I love this soup.” 

The scout whistled amusedly, watching him as he ate. It was no time at all before Sam was scraping the bottom of the cup, chasing the last remnants of diced vegetables and noodles. When he finished eating, the holoform handed him another container. Sam opened it to find a slice of peach cobbler in the box. He looked from the dessert to the scout, a grin splitting his face.

“Bee, if we weren’t already bonded, I would totally put a ring on it.”

From his spot at the workbench, Ratchet _harrumphed_ in disapproval. “That is far too rich. You haven’t eaten in eight days.”

“Nu-uh.” Sam replied, taking a bite of the cobbler before Ratchet could take it away, “I just had soup.”

The medic’s mental presence sharpened in displeasure, but he offered no further objection. Sam took that as tacit approval, and tucked into the dessert with gusto. It was peachy, sugary perfection and it was gone all too soon.

“Hey, can you take this thing out?” Sam asked after he finished eating, raising his arm to indicate the intravenous cannula taped to the back of his hand.

“No.” Ratchet replied, turning around to look at him, “I will remove it after you have rested.”

“C’mon, Ratch.” Sam wheedled, “I can sleep it off upstairs.”

“No, Sam.”

Sam flushed in irritation. “Ratchet—“

The medic pinned him with a look that made his jaw snap shut, silencing any further protest. Ratchet held his gaze for a moment longer, letting the warning linger, before turning back to his workbench. Sam huffed in frustration, letting his head fall back to thump against the pillows. Bumblebee’s holoform smiled at him sympathetically.

“You should get some sleep.” He murmured, stepping forward to thumb some sugar off Sam’s bottom lip, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Sam grumbled, but he settled down onto his side all the same. The holoform smiled at him affectionately before it disappeared. Bumblebee leaned in, curling the digits of one servo carefully over the hospital bed’s railing and tracing the line of Sam’s spine with the digits of the other. Sam’s eyes drifted closed as the scout repeated the caress, from shoulder to hip, again and again. Bumblebee was near enough that Sam could feel the radiant heat from his chassis. He shifted closer until his forehead and knees were pressed into the safety rail. He laid there for a long while, trying and failing to fall asleep. Eventually, he angled his head to look up at Bumblebee.

“I was in stasis for eight days.” He said softly.

Bumblebee’s digit stilled on its circuitous route across Sam’s back.

“Yes, I know.” He murmured in reply.

“Eight days, Bee.” Sam repeated. “And I don’t remember anything.”

“Ratchet put you in deep-stasis.” He said gently, “You wouldn’t be able to remember anything.”

Sam swallowed against the lump that had formed in his throat. Eventually, he managed to ask, “Does Knock Out… Can he…?”

The scout’s mental presence was at once sorrowful and pained. He shuttered his optics, pressing his servo against Sam’s back. “Yes, Sam. He can.”

Sam’s breath hitched in his throat, the admission hitting him unexpectedly hard. When he spoke, his voice was small. “Then why didn’t he?”

“He did, when he could. Especially towards the end.” Bumblebee murmured, “You just don’t remember.” Sam squeezed his eyes closed, struggling to control himself. Bumblebee made a concerned sound, before crouching down so that they were eye-level with one another. “What can I do to help?”

Sam shook his head, unable to reply. Bumblebee _chirruped_ at him gently, azure optics less than a meter away from his bedside. They stayed like that in mutual silence until Sam fell asleep almost an hour later.

* * *

After the accident, Sam’s days resumed their normal routine with one significant exception: during training, he worked under the close observation of both Jazz and Trailbreaker. The saboteur drilled him on offensive tactics, including penetration, while the strategist worked with Sam on the defensive aspects of infiltration. Trailbreaker proved to be a gifted and patient instructor. Sam learned more about filtering firewalls, boundary protection protocols, and egress filters than he ever thought possible. Trailbreaker’s training also helped with Sam’s offensive skills—it was easier to understand how to compromise another’s defenses when you knew how they were put together in the first place.

Jazz was a great deal stricter with Sam than he had been before the accident. It was not long before he began to think of the second-in-command as two entirely different people. The Jazz during training was no-nonsense and unrelenting, pushing Sam to the limits of what he could endure. But, as soon as training was over, that person was gone, replaced by the easy-going, wisecracking mechanoid that he had first met in Tranquility. The stark contrast was disconcerting at first, and Sam found himself unsure which Jazz he was talking to at any given time. He got used to it eventually, but every now and again, Jazz’s voice would take on an edge that made Sam sit up and pay attention.

The end of the semester came and went. Sam studied between staff meetings and training, snatching an hour here and there to go over notes and re-read his textbook. He crushed his final exams, earning an A and an A- in his two courses. He celebrated that evening with Bumblebee, Luis, and the rest of the Glenlivet that Carter had given him as a housewarming gift. If he was bleary-eyed and quiet at the senior officers meeting the following morning, well, that was no one’s business but his own. Thankfully, the only item on the agenda was the last minute preparations for the Canadian delegation’s arrival the following afternoon. Optimus had postponed their visit after the accident, citing ‘a sudden unresolvable conflict’. The bureaucratic double-speak had amused Sam to no end.

That evening, Sam spent an enjoyable few hours going over the schedule of classes for the Fall semester. He registered for a full course load—three political geography courses and two communication courses—and then he ordered the required textbooks through Amazon (the mark-up at the university’s bookstore was ridiculous). When seven o’clock rolled around, he quickly made his way downstairs to the ground bridge hangar. Bumblebee and Cliffjumper were already waiting for him, their alt modes gleaming in the florescent light. To his surprise, Trailbreaker and Hound were there as well. He cast a curious look at the Jeep Wrangler and the Toyota Tacoma as he climbed into Bumblebee’s cab.

“Are Trailbreaker and Hound coming too?” Sam asked as soon as he settled into his seat.

Bumblebee’s engine turned over and he followed Cliffjumper out of the ground bridge hangar. Trailbreaker and Hound took up the rear of their little convoy.

“Yes, they are. Prowl has increased patrols until further notice.”

Sam frowned faintly, “Why?”

“Starscream contacted Prime this afternoon. One of his ground-frames has gone missing.”

The exit grew larger as they approached. Sam could already see the warm, golden sunlight of late afternoon slanting down the tunnel towards them. Cliffjumper’s brake lights lit up as he slowed to a stop in front of the checkpoint. The NEST soldiers standing sentry walked around each vehicle in turn, before moving to raise the boom arm that blocked the tunnel entrance. The two men saluted as the convoy accelerated into the Nevada desert.

Sam glanced back at the dashboard. “What do you mean, missing?”

He felt the mental equivalent of a shrug. “According to Starscream’s report, Breakdown was on assignment in California. He last checked-in six days ago. Hasn’t been heard from since.”

“California, huh?” Sam asked dryly, “I’m sure that’s a complete coincidence. What was he doing?”

“Reconnoitering.” Bumblebee replied, “If Starscream is to be believed, he detected an anomalous signal and went to investigate.”

“That’s a big if.” Sam muttered.

Bumblebee’s engines revved in agreement as he followed the red and black Bugatti towards the perimeter fence. Cliffjumper took a left turn, going off-road to follow the fence as it curved around the property. The alt modes kicked up great clouds of dust as they drove, but there was nothing playful about Bumblebee’s mental presence. The scout felt serious and focused, as he often did when he was working.

“So the missing ground-frame. Do they think that the Decepticons are making a move?”

Since the schism in the Decepticon ranks, Sam had taken to thinking of the two factions as the _Decepticons_ and the _Decepticons-lite_ , respectively. Starscream and Soundwave seemed to be honoring the truce that they had struck with Optimus, making them the lesser of two evils.

In front of them, Cliffjumper swerved to avoid a cluster of scrubby creosote plants. Bumblebee smoothly followed suit, staying in tight formation.

“That’s the working theory, yes.” Bumblebee replied.

Sam’s eyebrows quirked up. “Do they think the embassy is at risk?”

“Prowl believes that the probability of attack is negligible. Shockwave’s forces are too few to risk losing anyone in an embassy strike. It’s more likely that he will blitz the island.” 

“And the ground-frame?” Sam asked.

“A victim of opportunity, perhaps.”

Sam felt a twist of apprehension at Bumblebee’s speculative tone, but opted to drop the subject. They drove for another ten minutes before Cliffjumper slowed to a stop next to the perimeter fence. The scout transformed, kneeling in the sand to inspect the chain-link barrier. Sam made to climb out of the cab so that Bumblebee could transform as well, but the handle didn’t budge. He let go of the smooth plastic latch without complaint.

 _Message received._ He thought dryly. 

Sam watched through the windshield as Cliffjumper powered up his wrist-mounted laser. He leaned forward, a frown furrowing his brow.

“What’s he doing?”

“Someone cut the fence. He’s mending it.” Bumblebee replied.

Sam grimaced deeply. They had already caught one over-zealous news crew trespassing on the property. Evidentially, they had thought that either Optimus wouldn’t press charges or the United States government wouldn’t prosecute. They had been wrong on both accounts. It had created quite the furor on the evening news.

“They’re determined.” He muttered.

“They are.” Bumblebee agreed. “Are you ready for Friday?”

Sam grimaced again, letting his head fall back against the headrest. The quiet dinner reception they had originally planned had spiraled into something else entirely. In addition to the Governor of Nevada and the Mayors of Las Vegas and Reno, the guest list now included Ambassador Craft, soon-to-be Director Mearing, and Senator Rosen. Sam had almost backed out at least a dozen times, but something stubborn inside him had stayed his hand. He was either their Ambassador or he wasn’t. There were no half-measures.

His only saving grace was that Dave Carter, Will Lennox, and Bobby Epps would also be attending the reception. Carter had visited him a handful of times in the weeks prior to discuss diplomacy—an effort that was wasted on him, Sam was sure. He planned to leave the politics to Optimus, be polite to anyone who spoke with him, and make himself as scarce as possible. 

“I’ll manage.” Sam replied at last.

“You’ll enjoy yourself.” Bumblebee assured him for what felt like the hundredth time, “The food is supposed to be excellent.”

Sam rolled his eyes but he was smiling. “It had better be the best steak on the continent for a hundred dollars a plate.”

Evidentially finished with whatever he was doing to the fence, Cliffjumper straightened up and transformed back into his alt mode. The Bugatti continued the patrol and Bumblebee, Trailbreaker, and Hound fell into place behind him. By the time they made it back to the embassy, the sun was dipping below the horizon, sending long shadows across the Great Basin desert. The floodlights above the tunnel entrance were harsh in the twilight, and Sam was thankful when they were waved past the checkpoint. Bumblebee followed Cliffjumper until they arrived at the ground bridge hangar. As the other three Autobots continued down the Munitions tunnel, the Camaro pulled to a stop next to the squat staircase that led to the bunker.

Sam climbed out of the cab, smoothing a hand over the yellow bonnet. “Is the Canadian delegation still expected to arrive at two?”

“They are.” Bumblebee’s voice spilled from the radio, “Optimus and the others will be bridging in tomorrow morning.”

“What time?” Sam asked, stepping back to shut the driver’s side door.

“Eleven, but that could change if the delegation’s flight is delayed.”

“Alright, thanks. Keep me posted, will you?” Sam asked, walking around the front of the Camaro. Bumblebee honked in confirmation as he accelerated out of the ground bridge hangar. Sam watched him go, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. It was only after the sound of his engine disappeared down the corridor that Sam turned and climbed the stairs.

* * *

Sam stared at the clothing that he had laid out on the bed, a frown turning down the corners of his mouth. The suit that Carter had bought him included three dress shirts: pale lavender, crisp white, and robin’s egg blue. He held them up to his old suit one at a time, trying to determine what looked best against the navy-colored fabric. Eventually, he settled on the blue dress shirt and a dark, pinstriped tie. He dressed quickly, walking into the bathroom to fix his tie. He looped and pulled the silk fabric until he formed a halfway decent knot, then he smoothed it down and fastened his suit jacket. He gave himself a critical once-over, readjusting the Autobot pin on his lapel, and then he made his way out of the bathroom. He glanced at his wristwatch as he strolled towards the door. He had ten minutes to make it downstairs.

He knelt down, slipping the dress shoes onto his feet. He had polished the dark leather until it had gleamed the night before. He straightened a moment later, pulling open the door and stepping into the hallway. Sam quickly made his way across the residential section, through the security doors, and down the wide, cement staircase. His shoes rang smartly against the tiled floor as he strode through the administrative section towards the ground bridge hangar. He returned the polite nods and words of greeting that he received from the people he passed. He was sure that he wasn’t imagining their lingering looks, and he did his best to put it out of his mind.

He nodded to Donna as he stepped into the lobby. The redhead was wearing an immaculate cream-colored dress that bared her pale shoulders. She nodded back, winking at him as he crossed the room towards the antechamber. He huffed a laugh as he stepped through the doors. The hangar was a bustle of activity, with a few dozen NEST soldiers and technicians taking up space around the room. Ultra Magnus, Jazz, and Ratchet were there as well, standing a short distance from the ground bridge in their bipedal modes. They turned to look at him as he approached, three sets of azure optics zeroing in on him with uncanny accuracy.

“Good morning.” He said, stopping a short distance away and nodding towards the archway, “They bridging in?”

“Yes.” Ultra Magnus replied, waving a broad servo in Wheeljack’s direction. The engineer was swaying from pede to pede where he stood at the ground bridge controls, “We are waiting for Prime’s ready signal.”

Sam nodded understandingly. “Any word from the delegation?”

“They landed at the McCarran International Airport earlier this morning.” Ultra Magnus replied, “Their convoy is expected to arrive in less than two hours.”

“Well, that’s good.” Sam said, before asking dryly, “Everyone excited?”

His question was met with a myriad of reactions, from Ratchet’s loud scoff, to Ultra Magnus’ stoic silence, to Jazz’s easy grin. Sam grinned back at him.

“City Commander.” Wheeljack chirped respectfully, “Prime has sent the all-clear.”

Ultra Magnus straightened, turning to face the ground bridge. He nodded once in Wheeljack’s direction, and the engineer’s servos flew over the complicated control panel in front of him. A familiar blue-green miasma exploded to life in the archway, casting light across the ground bridge hangar. Sam turned to watch as Optimus drove through the vortex, followed closely by Ironhide and Prowl. The three vehicles accelerated towards them, stopping a short distance away. Carter climbed out of Optimus’ cab as Will and Bobby climbed out of Ironhide’s. As soon as the humans were safely away, the Autobots transformed.

Ultra Magnus stepped forward, inclining his helm deeply. “Welcome, my Prime.”

Optimus inclined his helm in turn. “Ultra Magnus. Has the conference room been prepared?”

As the two metal titans discussed catering arrangements, Carter strolled forward with an easy-going smile on his face. “You went with the eggshell blue. Nice choice.”

Sam rolled his eyes in fond exasperation. “The lavender shirt will go better with the new suit.”

Dave laughed lightly. “Look at that, he can be taught.”

“Hey, I’m not just a pretty face.” Sam replied dryly, “I’m the whole package.”

Lennox snorted as he came to stop beside Carter, dropping his duffle bag on the concrete floor. “Yeah, you’re a total catch.”

Sam grinned at the older man. “Absolutely. Charming, funny, handsome, full of wit—“

”Whatever you’re full of definitely rhymes with wit.” Epps cut in dryly.

Sam laughed, nodding his approval at the insult. Lennox bent down to pick up his duffle bag again. “I’m going to stow my kit. I’ll be back soon.”

“I’ll go with you.” Bobby said, shouldering the heavy-looking bag that he was carrying.

Carter, who already had accommodations in the embassy, did not have any bags to put away. As the two soldiers made their way into the bunker, Dave moved to stand beside him. The older man bumped their shoulders together. 

“You ready?” He asked, looking sidelong at him.

“Yeah, I guess so.” Sam replied dubiously, “I’ve already met Ambassadors Craft and Blanchard, maybe it won’t be too bad.”

“You know Director Mearing and Jennifer, too.” Dave reassured him, “And I’ll be there. You’ll be fine.”

Sam’s eyebrows quirked up. “Jennifer? Jennifer who?”

“Ah. I mean Agent Miller.” Dave replied, uncharacteristically flustered.

“Agent Miller’s coming?” Sam asked, enjoying the flush that was spreading across Carter’s face, “I didn’t know that she got an invite.”

“She’s my plus one.” Carter replied dryly.

Sam grinned at him. “Oh. _I see_. You’re at the wining-n-dining part of the relationship, huh?”

Carter rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. Rather than raise to the good-natured teasing, the agent turned on his heel and started towards the bunker. Sam hurried after him, chuckling as they headed to the conference room together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Friendly Warning:** Schism is about to get dark. Pay attention to the tags as they get added.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** If you are so interested, here is a picture of [[Sam's three thousand dollar suit]](https://media.gq.com/photos/558436f209f0bee5644362a1/master/w_1600%2Cc_limit/style-2010-03-shia-labeouf-shia-labeouf03.jpg) that he wears to the dinner reception.

The Canadian delegation arrived just after two o’clock that afternoon. Sam stood at Optimus’ side as their motorcade pulled into the ground bridge hangar. The cavernous space was packed with people and Autobots alike. The former, Optimus’ senior officers and staff, were arranged in small groups near the bunker entrance. Donna stood between Carter and Lennox, hands clasped loosely in front of her. The Autobots were arranged according to rank behind Optimus and Sam. Ultra Magnus and Jazz stood in their bipedal modes, while the others were parked in their alt modes. All of the Autobots who were assigned to the embassy were present, except for Bumblebee, Cliffjumper, and Bulkhead. Ultra Magnus had suggested that the wrecker join the scouts on their patrol, and Optimus had readily agreed.

Sam watched as the dark-colored SUVs parked near the ground bridge entrance. They were all identical-looking except for the third vehicle in the row, which had the Canadian flag mounted on the hood. The sound of doors opening and closing echoed around the cavernous space as men and women, all meticulously dressed and wearing coiled earpieces, climbed out of the cars. Most of them fanned out, taking up position according to their roles. The agents in the Ambassador’s car stepped forward to pull open the door on his behalf. A moment later, Ambassador Blanchard climbed out of the SUV. He looked the same as Sam remembered—a portly, middle-aged man with dark hair that was graying at the temples. He had a broad, friendly smile on his face as he strode towards them.

“Good afternoon, Optimus Prime. Thank-you for receiving us.” Blanchard said.

Optimus went down to one knee in front of the man, inclining his helm in greeting. “Welcome, Ambassador Blanchard. It is good to see you again. Of course, you will remember Ambassador Witwicky.”

Sam stepped forward to shake Blanchard’s hand. “ _Bienvenue_ , Ambassador.”

Blanchard’s face pulled up in surprise and he gave a loud, jovial laugh. “ _Très bien, merci._ Please, call me Marc.” He glanced over his shoulder at an attractive middle-aged woman in a navy-blue skirt suit. He extended a hand towards her and she stepped forward, taking it. “Allow me to introduce my wife, Emma.”

She smiled politely as she shook Sam’s hand, before glancing furtively at Optimus. The Autobot leader inclined his helm, graceful and dignified. “Madame Blanchard, welcome.”

Mme. Blanchard laughed lightly, almost nervously, and Sam noticed the rigid set of her shoulders. Evidentially, Optimus was aware of her discomfort as well, for his countenance grew gentle. “It is a pleasure to meet you. Allow me to introduce Ultra Magnus, my City Commander, and Jazz, my second-in-command.”

Optimus gestured to each of them in turn. They bowed at the waist, inclining their helms in greeting. Ambassador Blanchard smiled at them both, accepting their deference with a nod of acknowledgement.

“You have had a long journey.” Optimus rumbled, “Can I offer you some refreshment?”

Sam glanced sidelong at the Autobot leader. His entire countenance, from his tone of voice to his posture, was dignified and courteous. Sam resisted the amused smile that threatened to show on his face. Even on his knees, the Autobot leader was the embodiment of stateliness.

“Thank-you, Prime, but no. I would prefer to begin our discussions as soon as possible.” Blanchard replied.

Optimus inclined his helm before straightening to his full height. “As you wish, Ambassador. One moment, please.”

The Autobot leader gestured meaningfully to the space beside Sam. Slowly, far more slowly than necessary, his holoform materialized into existence. The human likeness was wearing a dark suit with a pale blue tie. It was only because of his earlier discussion with Carter that Sam realized the tie was the same color as Sam’s shirt.

Blanchard chuckled as he stepped forward, shaking the holoform’s hand. “As impressive as ever, Prime.”

The holoform’s eyes crinkled in a smile as he gestured towards the embassy entrance. “Thank-you, Ambassador. Please, follow me.”

The holoform led them through the antechamber into the reception area. The lobby was empty except for Donna, who had taken her seat behind the desk. Together, they made their way into the conference room. Ambassador Blanchard sat at on one side of the table, his personal assistants sitting down on either side of him. Optimus took a seat on the opposite side of the table, with Ultra Magnus’ holoform on one side and Dave Carter on the other. Sam pulled out the chair beside Carter, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he sat down. As Agent Boynton pulled the doors closed, Sam caught sight of Mme. Blanchard speaking with Lennox in the lobby.

As the meeting began, it became readily apparent why Optimus had rolled out the red carpet for the Canadians. The first item on their agenda was trade—more specifically, trade for energon. Sam learned that unrefined energon was a milky-pink stone called rhodochrosite. Although it was a relatively rare mineral, rhodochrosite was found in abundance in three places: the state of Colorado, the country of Argentina, and the province of Alberta, Canada. The scientist that had accompanied the Canadian delegation shared a number of documents outlining its occurrence and extraction. Evidentially, the Canadians were in the process of surveying large swaths of the territorial north in the search for more.

When the scientist finished speaking, Optimus inclined his head. “Our geologist, Beachcomber, can assist you with surveying. He is capable of detecting energon without the need to dig.”

The scientist’s expression sharpened, becoming interested. “Is that true for other minerals as well?”

Optimus leaned back in his chair, giving the man a considerate look. “Perhaps. Which did you have in mind?”

The scientist exchanged a weighted look with Ambassador Blanchard, who turned to smile at Optimus. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” At Optimus’ permissive gesture, the Ambassador leaned forward, clasping his hands and resting his forearms on the table. “You want energon, we have it. We’re interested in negotiating a mutually beneficial trade deal.”

“We wish the same.” Optimus replied diplomatically.

“Good.” Blanchard said, standing up to hand Optimus a manila folder. “Uncut, unpolished rhodochrosite sells consistently at $4000 CAD for 100 carats. Its value is dependent on color and clarity. The New Hope mine in High Level, Alberta is estimated to contain 375 million carats of proven and probable reserves.” 

Optimus opened the folder, eyes roving over the document. A moment later, he handed the folder to Carter. Although Sam tried to keep his eyes to himself, he couldn’t help but glance at it. The folder contained a complicated budget report. While he couldn’t see the entire document, the numbers that were circled at the bottom had more commas than a run-on sentence.

“This budget has three different values listed for rhodochrosite.” Carter said, glancing up.

Blanchard turned to look at his scientist, who nodded firmly. “As His Excellency mentioned, the value of a gemstone depends on several factors. Those three values are an estimated cost for three separate bids.”

Carter closed the folder, setting it on the table in front of him. Optimus’ holoform smiled pleasantly. “What three bids do you propose?”

Blanchard nodded to the manila folder. “The first cost, $3500 per carat is the price for a modest agreement—100 million carats. The second cost, $1000, is the price per carat if you agree to 325 million carats, 100 million from the High Level mine and the remainder from other mines across the province.”

“And the $110 cost?” Optimus asked mildly.

“The $110 figure is the price per carat if you agree to a trade deal for one billion carats over ten years.”

Optimus eyebrows quirked up. “I was under the impression that Alberta only has 800 million proven and probable reserves.”

Blanchard smiled, nodding. “It does. That’s where your geologist comes in.”

“That’s quite the discount for a bit of surveying.” Sam said skeptically.

“Yes, well. There would be conditions.” Blanchard replied.

“Conditions?” Ultra Magnus asked flatly.

“Rhodochrosite is difficult, time consuming, and labor intensive to find. Canada is a large country.” Blanchard said. “Even with your sensitive equipment, your geologist will need to cover a significant area in his search.”

“Ah.” Ultra Magnus replied. “I see.” The holoform leaned forward in his seat, resting his forearms against the table as he mirrored Blanchard’s posture. “And if, during his extensive search, Beachcomber happens to find other precious minerals and metals…?”

Blanchard inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Then he would be contractually bound to disclose their location, quantity, and quality to the Canadian government.”

Optimus stared across the table for a long moment, before leaning back and flipping open the folder. He trailed a finger over the figures printed on the paper, a considerate expression on his face. 

“And where, exactly, would you expect Beachcomber to begin surveying?” He asked mildly without looking up from the document.

Blanchard smiled pleasantly. “The High Level mine is located just over 700 kilometers away from the Northwest Territories. Our geologists believe that’s a reasonable place to begin.”

All at once, Sam understood Blanchard’s angle. The territorial north was estimated to contain ten to twenty-five percent of the world’s undiscovered supply of fossil fuels, minerals, and precious metals. They remained undiscovered (and unmined) owing to the difficult, frozen terrain and sparse population—neither issue would be a concern for Beachcomber. Sam turned to look at Optimus, opening his mouth to deliver a warning, when the Autobot leader frowned faintly. 

“You stand far more to gain from this trade deal than a hundred billion dollars.” He rebuked. 

“ _We_ stand to gain far more from this trade deal.” Blanchard corrected, unaffected by Optimus’ displeasure, “The Canadian government has agreed to pay you one percent, gross, for anything that your geologist finds.”

Optimus expression was unreadable as he stared across the table at the Ambassador. After a weighted moment, he tipped his head to the side. “2.5 percent gross, the $110 price per carat remains locked in for twenty years, and we are guaranteed any energon that Beachcomber finds.” 

Sam stared at the holoform in stunned silence. He knew that Optimus was many things, but a barterer was not one of them.

Blanchard smiled. “What’s to prevent you from offering the same deal to the Russians?”

Optimus smiled back. “If you want exclusivity, then you’re going to have to pay for it.”

The Canadian Ambassador sat back in his chair. “You’re a tough old bastard, Prime. Do you know that?” 

Sam turned to look at the older man, taken aback by the insult, which was at odds with his genial tone. For his part, Optimus did not look offended by the slur. The holoform’s lips curved up in a wry smile as he replied, “It’s been mentioned to me once or twice in the past.”

Blanchard chuckled softly. “Fine, I’ll cut the bullshit. Four percent gross, $100 CAD per carat, in perpetuity, adjusted for inflation. You have dibs on any energon that your geologist finds. In exchange, you will provide specifics about the mineral resources that he finds and you will sign a non-compete with the Canadian government.”

Optimus considered the Ambassador for a moment longer before inclining his head. “I’ll have my people draft a treaty.”

Blanchard smiled, wide and genuine. “That won’t be necessary.” He said, accepting another folder from his personal assistant and handing it across the table to Prime. Optimus opened it, eyes roving over the document inside.

“My legal team will need to go over this.” Optimus said, handing the folder to Ultra Magnus.

“Of course.” Blanchard replied agreeably, “They won’t find anything untoward, I assure you.”

Optimus made a considerate sound, and then they moved on to the next item on the agenda. Just like that—as though they hadn’t just negotiated a trillion dollar trade deal. The rest of the meeting passed by well enough. The talked about tariffs, environmental protection, investments, and funding for scientific research. They did not have another negotiation that was as intense as the trade deal had been, and by the end of the meeting, Sam had the impression that the Canadian Ambassador was well pleased. Optimus stood, walking around the table to shake the man’s hand. Then, they were moving on. The next item on the agenda was a tour of the embassy followed by a tour of Diego Garcia, the latter for the benefit of the Ambassador’s wife. As Sam wasn’t about to step foot on the island, he bid the Ambassador farewell after the embassy tour.

As the delegation headed to the ground bridge hangar, Sam made his way back to his apartment. He was already loosening his tie as the security doors to the residential section swung shut behind him, and by the time he stepped into his room, he had it off from around his neck. He took a moment to hang his suit neatly in the closet, and then he collapsed into a heap on the couch. He angled his head to stare at the kitchenette, debating the relative merits of sloth _versus_ gluttony. Eventually, his rumbling stomach won the argument and he hauled himself to his feet.

He fixed himself a can of beef stew, carrying the steaming bowl back over to the couch. He was halfway through his meal when he felt a touch in the back of his mind. Sam glanced up in time to see Bumblebee’s holoform materialize in the center of his living space. He smiled at the holoform affectionately, shifting over to make room on the couch.

They spent the evening in companionable silence, Bumblebee distracted by work and Sam struggling not to think about the reception. It was almost eleven o’clock when Bumblebee finally guided Sam to his feet and over towards the bed. As Sam sat down on the mattress, the holoform angled his head up and kissed him gently on the mouth. After another murmured assurance that Sam would enjoy himself at the reception, Bumblebee smiled down at him and then disappeared. Sam stared at the empty air for a moment longer, blowing out a breath through pursed lips, and then he settled in for a long night of fitful tossing. 

* * *

The following day passed by in a whirlwind. Sam was up, bright and early, to have breakfast with Ambassador Blanchard and his wife. They talked politely over croissants and fresh fruit in the conference room. Sam asked about their tour of Diego Garcia and Madame Blanchard asked about his schoolwork. He was surprised to learn that she used to be an investigative journalist before resigning to raise her children. She asked him shrewd questions, challenging him in a way that reminded Sam distinctly of Optimus. After their meal, he walked them to the ground bridge hangar to hand them over to their security detail. The delegation was spending the day in Jasper, meeting with other dignitaries before the reception that evening.

Sam worked for the rest of the morning. He spent hours going through the backlog of e-mails that had piled up over the last two days. It was just after noon when Carter knocked on his office door and asked whether Sam wanted to go to lunch. Sam was out of seat and in the hallway almost before the words were out of his mouth. They walked together to the embassy’s cafeteria, queueing at the back of the line. Sam leaned in and murmured a quiet warning about the food, but Carter just smiled at him. When they got to the galley, Sam saw that sweet and spicy chicken was the daily lunch special. He ordered himself a plate, with more than a little trepidation, while Carter chose a pre-packaged Greek salad. They paid for their food and then made their way to the comfortable seating near the vending machines. Carter tossed his tie over his shoulder and spread napkins over his lap, before tucking into his salad. Sam was surprised to find that the sweet and spicy chicken was good—not as good as Chef Jefferson’s, perhaps, but good. After they finished eating, they carried their refuse over to the garbage bins near the doors. They scraped and stowed their dishes, before stacking their trays on pile at the end of the galley.

When Sam turned to say good-bye to Dave, he caught sight of the apologetic look on his face.

“What?” He asked, warily.

“Sorry, Sam.” Dave replied, “I’m supposed to bring you to logistics for media training.”

Sam stared at him, aghast. “ _Media training_?”

The older man lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Although we vetted the media that we will be at the reception, there’s no guarantee they’ll play nice. You need to learn how to talk with them.”

“I don’t plan on talking with them at all.” Sam replied, his voice an octave higher than normal, “Optimus declined their requests for an interview.”

Dave’s expression was preternaturally patient. “Yes, Sam. I know. But they’re still going to ask questions and they’ll still be filming. There’s an art to turning down a reporter without coming across as defensive or insecure.”

Sam barked an incredulous laugh. “ _Defensive and insecure_ could be the title of my autobiography.”

The older man rolled his eyes indulgently. “It’ll take forty-five minutes. Suck it up.”

Now it was Sam’s turn to roll his eyes. He grudgingly followed Carter through the double-doors on the opposite side of the foyer, walking through logistics until they reached an unfamiliar office. Carter checked his watch and knocked sharply on the door. It opened a moment later, revealing a scene straight out of Sam’s worst nightmare. There were two chairs arranged in the middle of the room, facing one another. A large backdrop with the Autobot emblem was arranged behind one chair. There were two fill lights behind the other chair, arranged so that they faced the backdrop. To top it all off, there was a camera on a tripod beside the second chair, facing the first.

An older man stepped into the doorway, smiling at them. “Welcome Your Excellency, Agent Carter. Please, come in.”

He stepped aside, gesturing towards the two chairs arranged in the middle of the room. Carter strolled passed him, seemingly without a qualm, and Sam followed after, feeling far less confident.

“My name is Justin O’Hare. Please take the hot seat, Your Excellency.” The man said, tipping his head towards the chair in front of the backdrop.

“It’s just Sam.” He replied faintly, sitting down.

O’Hare’s sat in the chair across from him. Carter leaned against the wall, arms folded over his chest as he watched them closely.

“Alright, Sam. I understand this is your first experience with media training. Is that right?” O’Hare asked, settling back against the seat.

“Uh, yeah.” Sam replied, glancing from O’Hare to the fill lights to the camcorder.

“Great. It’s always fun working with the newbies.” O’Hare said, “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’ll talk you through what makes a good interview and a bad interview. Then, we’ll practice in front of the camera. After that, we’ll watch the footage together so I can give you some feedback. How does that sound?” 

Sam stared at the older man skeptically. “Do you really want to know?”

To his surprise, O’Hare threw back his head and laughed. “Hey, none taken. Look, I get it: it’s intimidating to talk to the media. My job is to make it less intimidating. Alright?”

Sam nodded slowly and O’Hare smiled at him encouragingly.

“Great. First lesson: the media are not your friends. No matter how polite or professional a reporter might seem, _everyone has an agenda_. Never assume that their agenda will align with your best interests.”

Sam listened as O’Hare outlined the cardinal rules of dealing with the media, which included being prepared for uncomfortable questions and answering only the question that was put to him. O’Hare also warned him that the phrase “No comment” had never make it passed his lips. If Sam didn’t want to answer a question, then he was free to decline, but under no circumstances was he to say that he didn’t have a comment. Diplomats _always_ had a comment, even if it was an evasion or a redirect.

To Sam’s surprise, he found himself listening in abject interest. His coursework was from a theoretical standpoint, not a practical one. It was fascinating to see those principles in action. O’Hare spent another ten minutes talking about the fundamentals of interviewing, before he stood up and turned on the camcorder. Sam glanced from the red light to O’Hare as the older man resumed his seat.

“Alright. You ready?”

 _No_. Sam wanted to say, but instead he nodded slowly. “Yeah, sure.”

O’Hare smiled at him. “You’re a genuine guy, the media will eat that up. Just be yourself.”

The practice interview was not as bad as Sam had expected. The questions were relatively benign (“In your own words, can you describe how you met the Autobots?”, “What’s it like being a public figurehead at only twenty-one years old?”) and occasionally amusing (“Which of the Autobots has the best sense of humor?”, “How do they choose their alt modes?”). It wasn’t until the end of the interview that O’Hare glanced up at him and asked, in a perfectly pleasant voice, “What happened during the two years that you were held captive by the Decepticons?”

Sam jerked back as though he had been struck, totally blindsided by the question. He felt himself flush red in a combination of anger and embarrassment, but O’Hare just stared back at him expectantly. There was plenty that he wanted to say (“Fuck you” and “No comment” came to mind). Instead, Sam arranged his features in what he thought of as his diplomacy-neutral face and stiffly replied, “That’s not something I’m prepared to discuss. Next question.”

To his surprise, O’Hare nodded. The older man asked a few more questions about his time with the Autobots. Sam’s answers were more guarded than they had been, but he answered as well as he was able. After a few more minutes, O’Hare smiled at him.

“Okay. Any thoughts or questions before we replay the video?”

“No.” Sam replied, already dreading it.

O’Hare nodded and together they walked to a laptop that was setup on a table against the far wall. They watched the video, O’Hare pausing occasionally to comment on something Sam said or did. His feedback was generally positive, but occasionally he made a suggestion about Sam’s phrasing or his body language. When they got to the question about the Decepticons, Sam winced inwardly at his expression—he looked shocked, angry, and defensive. It wasn’t a particularly flattering look for him.

O’Hare glanced over at him. “You handled the question well, you know.”

Sam turned his head to frown at the man. “It doesn’t seem that way.”

“No? I’ve seen grown men become belligerent on live television when confronted like that. I’ve had guests swear at me, storm out of interviews, start to cry… you name it. Your reaction was visceral, yes, but you’re only human. If I was a reporter looking to get my pound of flesh by catching you off-guard, I would be sorely disappointed by that response.”

Sam stared at the laptop screen, weighing his response. Eventually, he asked, “You used to do this?”

O’Hare nodded. “Five years as a field correspondent, nine years as a journalist at CNN.”

Sam considered the video for a long moment—it was still paused at the point O’Hare had asked about the Decepticons. Without turning to face the older man, he asked, “What questions am I going to get asked? Really?”

O’Hare leaned back in his seat, head tipped to the side as he seemed to consider the question. “It depends on who’s conducting the interview. Left-leaning media will ask different questions than right-leaning media. They’ll all want to know about Mission City and Egypt. Most of it’s public record now, but that’s the official story, you know? They’ll want to hear your side of it. There’s also a lot of curiosity about the Autobots themselves—what’s it like to live with them, to work with them? What are they like as individuals? Some journalists will want to humanize them, but others will try to underscore their alienness.”

Sam thought about that as O’Hare regarded him closely. Eventually, the older man leaned forward, his expression earnest. “You’re going to get asked some hard questions, Sam. Both personally and professionally. My advice is to prepare accordingly.”

“How?” Sam asked softly.

“Get a notepad and write out every uncomfortable question you can think of. Read them out loud, again and again. Get used to hearing the words being spoken, because eventually, someone’s going to ask you those questions. Then, practice answering them until you can reply on rote.”

Sam nodded, glancing back at the laptop. “Thanks.”

“No worries, it’s my job.” O’Hare replied, leaning forward to resume the video. The watched the rest of the footage in silence, and when it was finished, O’Hare closed the laptop and stood-up. He picked up a thick, bound document and handed it to Sam. He glanced down to see the words _Media Training: Developing Effective Spokespersons_ on the glossy cover. After that, O’Hare shook his hand and gave Sam his business card with the standing invitation to contact him if he had any questions.

Sam spent the rest of the afternoon in his apartment, sprawled on the couch as he read through the training packet. He was surprised to find that a lot of the information was useful, including tips on avoiding common traps and navigating hostile interviews. He read with avid interest until Bumblebee _brushed_ against his mind in a gentle reminder. Sam glanced at his wristwatch and then felt a surge of adrenaline as he realized it was almost five o’clock. He scrambled to his feet, hurrying into the bathroom. He showered and shaved, before spending a few minutes on the fiddly aspects of personal grooming. After he had finished trimming his fingernails, Sam made his way back into the living space and over to his closet. He took his new suit off the hangar, laying it out over the coffee table. He slipped into the pale lavender shirt first, buttoning it up with quick, precise motions. He pulled on his pants next, then his suit jacket. Lastly, he popped his collar and slid the checkered blue tie around his neck. He was fastening the Autobot pin to his lapel a moment later when Bumblebee’s holoform materialized in front of him.

“The suit looks good on you.” Bumblebee murmured, hands smoothing over Sam’s shoulders.

“I make it look good.” Sam teased, tugging the cuffs of his shirt.

Bumblebee’s expression was fondly exasperated. “Are you ready?”

“For steak? Definitely. For everything else? I don’t know.” He replied honestly.

The holoform’s face warmed with amusement. “I have a surprise for you downstairs that might help. Come see.”

Sam tipped his head to the side, but the holoform disappeared before he could ask anything. With growing curiosity, he pulled on his dress shoes and slipped out of the apartment. The residential section was quiet, despite the dinner hour, and the administrative section wasn’t much busier. As Sam crossed the lobby, he noticed that even Donna wasn’t at her usual spot behind the reception desk.

“Sam.”

He pulled up short, turning in the direction of the voice—only to stop in his tracks. Bumblebee’s holoform was standing in the hallway to logistics, wearing an easy smile and an expensive-looking suit. Sam stared in surprise. He had never seen the holoform in anything other than his usual clothing. The charcoal-gray fabric suited the holoform’s tanned complexion, and it contrasted tastefully with his purple-and-white checkered shirt.

Sam crossed the lobby towards him, a smile spreading across his face. “What’s this?”

Bumblebee’s posture was relaxed, hands resting in his pockets. “I’ve been reliably informed that tonight is an opportunity for wining and dining.”

Sam’s smile sharpened into a grin. “Carter?”

“Carter.” Bumblebee confirmed.

Sam stopped in front of the holoform, close enough that he had to angle his head up to look at him. “Bumblebee, are you asking me out on a date?”

The holoform’s eyes softened. “If you’d like. No one needs to know but us.”

Sam was suddenly aware of Bumblebee’s tentativeness, his uncertainty, and all at once, he realized that the scout wasn’t sure whether Sam would accept his offer. He shook his head in helpless affection. Bumblebee had always let Sam decide the terms of their relationship—including whom he told and when. Although Sam might not be ready for the public to know about them, he was delighted at the prospect of spending the evening together.

“I’d love to.” Sam replied with feeling.

Bumblebee’s face warmed with a smile. Before he could respond, Sam heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He turned, watching as Agent Simmons stepped into the lobby. The woman was dressed in what Sam had come to think of as her work clothes: a dark suit, sensible footwear, and a coiled earpiece that disappeared into her jacket.

“Your Excellency, it’s time to go.” 

Sam suppressed his grimace at the honorific. _I guess we’re on the clock_.

Together, Sam, Bumblebee, and Agent Simmons made their way through the antechamber and out into the ground bridge hangar. Sam was surprised to find three sleek-looking SUVs lined up in front of the bunker entrance. The middle vehicle had a pennant flag with the Autobot emblem on its hood. Sam stared in confusion as Agent Boynton stepped up to the rear door, pulling it open for him.

Sam looked from Agent Boyton to Agent Simmons, a frown furrowing his brow.

“I’m driving with Bee.” He said, although it came out more like a question.

“Yes, you are. Let’s go.” Bumblebee said, strolling towards to the vehicle. Sam watched, equal parts amused and surprised, as the holoform climbed into the waiting cab. Sam followed behind him, nodding to Agent Boynton as he ducked into the backseat beside Bumblebee. The agent closed the door and then he and Agent Simmons climbed into the front of the car.

Boynton raised his hand, pressing two fingers against his earpiece. “Phoenix is _en route_ , ETA thirty minutes.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose to his hairline at the codename. He turned to look at Bumblebee’s holoform, canting his head to the side in a silent question. The holoform’s lips quirked up in amusement as Agent Boynton pressed the ignition switch.

 _//It’s a poorly guarded secret that you died.//_ Bumblebee explained.

Sam grimaced faintly. He supposed that it was inevitable—he had been dead for eight minutes before gasping back to life in the Egyptian desert. If the physicians on the _USS Theodore Roosevelt_ knew about it, then it would follow that the American government knew about it as well. Bumblebee interrupted his musing by leaning over to pull the seatbelt across his chest. He buckled the latch, fixing Sam with a sardonic smile.

“Human vehicles are prohibitively dangerous.” He said, pitching his voice to carry. Agent Simmons glanced over her shoulder, smirking at him.

“I’m surprised you’re fine with this.” Sam replied.

“The Americans insisted.” Bumblebee said, settling back against the seat. His tone made his opinion on the matter perfectly clear. Agent Boynton accelerated out of the ground bridge hangar and down the long, white tunnel towards the entrance. The convoy passed the checkpoint, driving into the late afternoon sun. Sam saw Bumblebee, Ratchet, and Jazz waiting in their alt modes near the parking lot. The three vehicles pulled out as they passed, falling in line behind them.

The convoy turned onto the road, accelerating to fifty-five miles per hour. Sam’s heart started beating faster in his chest, a combination of anxiety and excitement. This was the first time that he had been in public since Megatron had plastered his face over every television on the planet. Bumblebee’s holoform reached out, clasping his hand and giving it a little squeeze. Sam smiled at him gratefully, before turning his attention back towards the windshield. The desert stretched out in all directions, its red sandstone discolored by the tinted windows. It was a landscape barren of all but the most resilient lifeforms, those that had evolved to survive heat and drought and scarcity.

They turned onto another road, a numbered highway judging by the looks of it. The single lane stretched towards the horizon in a virtually straight line. The unimpeded view meant that Sam could watch as the town of Jasper, Nevada rose up in the distance. He could tell that it was a small community—the tallest buildings were a cluster of offices that couldn’t be more than a dozen stories high. It seemed like only moments later that the town sign flashed by on their right (“Jasper, pop: 4512”) and then Boynton was navigating the highway exit, slowing as he approached the roundabout at the end of the off-ramp.

They took the second exit, went through another roundabout, and then pulled onto a busy road. Restaurants and businesses flashed by on either side of the two-lane street. Traffic was heavier now, congested by the rush hour, and they slowed to a stop at a red light. The pedestrians standing at the crosswalk stared in naked interest at the convoy, despite the walk signal in their favor. A moment later, the light turned green, and Boynton accelerated through the intersection and down the block. As they made to turn the corner, Sam felt a touch of _warning_ in the back of his mind as Bumblebee squeezed his hand again.

Sam was thankful for the heads-up. Both sidewalks were full of people—hundreds, maybe thousands of them, all clustered around a building about halfway down the road. His heart tripped into double-time at the sight of them. As they neared the restaurant, he could see that the sidewalk in front of the Gothic-inspired building had been cleared and roped off. A number of _Very Serious-Looking_ men in suits were standing near the stanchions, feet shoulder-width apart and hands fisted at their waists. Their dark suits, sunglasses, and earpieces gave them away as Secret Service better than a varsity jacket.

 _“Holy fuck._ ” Sam breathed.

The parking spaces on either side of the road had been cleared to make room for the Autobots. Optimus was parked across from the restaurant’s entrance, gleaming in the late afternoon sun. Behind him, seemingly in descending order of size, were Ultra Magnus, Trailbreaker, Hound, Hot Rod, and Arcee. Sam turned his attention inwards to _brush_ against Roddy in greeting, when he realized there were more of them—he could make out Ironhide, Cliffjumper, and Bluestreak somewhere nearby. 

He turned to look at Bumblebee’s holoform, concern furrowing his brow. “Is Optimus making a statement or is he expecting trouble?”

“Neither, he’s showing off.” Bumblebee replied dryly.

Sam snorted at the understatement. Every mechanoid from the embassy was present, except Wheeljack and Bulkhead, no surprise there, and a sizable contingent from Diego Garcia had come as well. Something occurred to him and he frowned. “This could be the perfect opportunity for the Decepticons to attack the island.” 

Bumblebee grimaced. “The thought has crossed my mind as well. Optimus and Prowl believe that the island is sufficiently protected.”

Sam’s frown deepened. He knew that over half of the Autobots were still on the island, including Prowl and Kup, but it would make for an enticing target with Optimus, Ultra Magnus, and Ironhide out of the equation. Shockwave might not get a better chance to mount a rescue attempt.

Bumblebee seemed to sense his unease, for his mental presence _pulsed_ comfortingly. “Optimus isn’t about to risk your safety, or that of the Canadian delegation, on a whim. It’s a short drive back to the ground bridge in the case of an emergency—the energy barrier could withstand an assault for that long.”

All thoughts of Decepticons and island security evaporated as their vehicle slowed to a stop in front of the restaurant. Sam had one terrifying moment to think _I can’t do this_ before his door was being pulled open. He sat frozen, like a deer in the headlights, until Bumblebee’s holoform nudged his shoulder.

“C’mon. Just go straight into the restaurant. I’m right behind you.”

As if in a dream, Sam climbed out of the car. He was met immediately with the clamor of people shouting his name and the flashes of multiple cameras. He straightened his suit jacket as Bumblebee climbed out of the car after him, and then together they walked into the restaurant. The glass doors swung shut behind him, muffling the sound of the media frenzy currently happening on the sidewalk. He exchanged a look with Bumblebee, huffing a disbelieving laugh.

_How is this my life?_

A woman in a form-fitting black dress stood near the entrance to the dining area. She smiled at them as they approached. “Your Excellency, welcome to Provence. Please, come with me.”

Sam was so overwhelmed that he almost missed the coiled earpiece that she was wearing. He realized, belatedly, that the woman was part of the Secret Service detail. He followed her through the dining room, which was completely empty, passed the galley kitchen, and through a set of wide double doors. The room within had been lavishly decorated. It was filled with circular tables that seated a half-a-dozen people apiece. Each one was covered in a cream-colored tablecloth, expensive-looking dishware, and a floral centerpiece.

They crossed the room towards the long table that was set up against the far wall. Optimus’ holoform sat beside Ambassador Blanchard, and they appeared to be engaged in pleasant conversation. Blanchard’s wife sat at his side, wearing an elegant evening dress, while the two chairs beside Optimus were empty. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out where they were headed.

The room was filled with the sounds of classical music, quiet conversation, and the clink of dishes. Heads turned as they passed, and Sam was painfully aware of the curious looks that were being directed his way. He saw Dave sitting at a table with Director Mearing and Agent Miller near the front of the room, and Lennox sat at a table with Donna near the far wall. He stepped onto the dais, walking behind the table until he reached the seat at Optimus’ side. The Autobot leader broke off his conversation, smiling warmly at him.

“Hello Sam.”

“Hey Optimus.” Sam replied, pulling out the chair and sitting down. Belatedly, he wondered whether he should be more formal while they were in public. His gaze flicked up to the holoform’s face as he amended, “Prime.”

Optimus accepted his revision with an inclined head. Blanchard leaned forward, smiling effusively at him. “Hello again, Sam. Lovely place, huh?”

Sam huffed a laugh. The restaurant was extravagant, probably the type that didn’t even put prices on their menus. “Yeah, it’s nice. I hear the food’s excellent.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than did a server in a white shirt, black vest, and crimson apron lean over his shoulder. “Can I get you anything to drink, Your Excellency?”

“Have you ever tried Crown Royal?” Blanchard asked, swirling an amber-colored liquid in his glass.

“No, I haven’t.” Sam replied.

The older man smiled at the server, “He’ll have one. Neat, please.” When the server stepped away, the Ambassador turned his smile on Sam, “It’s a Canadian whisky, smooth and sweet. You’ll like it.”

Sam would have been worshipfully thankful for any alcohol at that moment, so he conceded the point with a nod. The Ambassador and Optimus slipped back into pleasant conversation, to which Sam listened with only half an ear. His attention was on the rapidly filling ballroom. Secret Service agents were positioned around the space, eyes roving over every detail. The servers walked from table to table, taking drink orders and refilling water glasses. Sam noticed a server who looked exactly like Bobby Epps. It wasn’t until the older man turned around that he realized it _was_ Bobby, apron and all. He glanced around the room, looking more closely at the other servers. He saw Luis Novo at a table near the door and Robin Williams standing behind the bar. 

Sam glanced over towards Bumblebee, only to find the holoform looking at him in amusement. “You guys aren’t joking around.”

“Nope.” Bumblebee agreed easily, leaning aside so that the server could place Sam’s drink on the table. “But it’s not just us, the Americans and the Canadians were adamant about security too.”

“Well, the last time that I was in public, I got a library destroyed and a bunch of people killed, so… valid concern, really.” Sam murmured, taking a sip of his whiskey. It was pleasantly sweet with a hint of spice to balance out the flavor.

“That wasn’t you.” Bumblebee admonished.

“Same difference.” Sam replied.

Bumblebee made an exasperated sound, but before he could reply, Optimus rose to his feet. The music stopped and the murmur of polite conversation quickly faded away. The holoform looked dignified and solemn, and Sam didn’t need to look to know that he had the attention of every person in the room. There were speeches then—first Optimus, then Blanchard—espousing their mutual commitments to peace, prosperity, and friendship. Optimus was solemn and dignified as he spoke, hitting every nonverbal cue in the book. Blanchard’s speech was far less formal. The dignitary had a dry, self-deprecating sense of humor that he used to his full advantage.

After the speeches were finished, the food arrived. The first course was a chickpea soup, garnished with bacon pieces and sour cream. A salmon tartare appetizer was next, followed by the main course. For Sam, that was filet mignon accompanied by mashed potatoes and crisp vegetables. He spread the linen napkin over his lap and, mindful of his manners, began eating only after everyone at his table had been served. The steak was so tender that it practically melted in his mouth.

Bumblebee was at his side the entire time and Sam was thankful for his company. The holoform murmured jokes and amusing observations to him while he ate, and by the time that he was finished dessert, Sam was feeling loose and relaxed. Admittedly, his second whiskey might have had something to do with that. When Bumblebee made a sarcastic comment about Novo’s red apron, Sam laughed delightedly.

He felt a gentle touch in his mind, and he turned to see Optimus looking at him. The holoform’s expression was fond and warm. Sam smiled back at him, easily.

After their dishes had been cleared away, Optimus and Blanchard made their way off the dais. The two dignitaries went around the room, table by table, making introductions and small talk. Sam wondered idly whether he should join them, but he was comfortable and content, so he stayed where he was. He and Bumblebee struck up a conversation with Mme. Blanchard as the server brought them another drink. Emma had evidentially recovered from her nervousness the day before, for she laughed gaily and teased Sam about his choice in alcohol. Sam accepted her good-natured ribbing with a smile.

It was about an hour later that Director Mearing made her way to their table. The older woman was wearing a plum-colored dress, her hair twisted in an elegant knot at the nape of her neck. Sam and Bumblebee turned to watch as she approached.

“Good evening, Mr. Ambassador.” She said.

“Good evening.” Sam replied, “I understand that congratulations are in order.”

Mearing tipped her head in acknowledgement. “Thank-you. I won’t lose the ‘interim’ in front of my title until it’s formally announced, but yes. It’s official.”

The older woman glanced at Bumblebee, her whole face warming with a smile. “It’s good to see you, Bee.”

Bumblebee’s expression was very soft. “It’s good to see you too, Charlie.”

She considered him for a long moment, before huffing a quiet laugh. “I forget how young you are, relative to the others. I keep thinking of you as an adult—an older adult, I mean.”

Sam couldn’t help the grin that split his face. “Oh, he’s an old man, alright. Ancient.”

Bumblebee gave him a look that was exasperated and amused in equal measures. Mearing regarded them for a long moment before she turned to look at Sam. “I owe you an apology.”

Sam blinked at her, completely taken aback, but she continued before he could reply, “I’m protective of Bumblebee. I have been, ever since I met him. It’s why I didn’t join him when he asked, it’s why I went into government work, and it’s why I built a career in Homeland Security.” She hesitated, a shadow of something heavy crossing her face, “Too many of my colleagues consider the Autobots to be objects. Machines. Highly intelligent machines, but still things to be used. I had assumed that, as an eighteen-year-old boy, you felt the same. I was dismissive and rude. I’m sorry.”

Sam could feel Bumblebee’s tumultuous emotions across their bond. He glanced at the holoform and was unsurprised by the look on his face—affectionate and fond. For once, it didn’t make Sam sick with jealousy to see that expression directed at someone else.

He turned back towards Mearing. “Thank-you. I appreciate that.”

Mearing tilted her head, smiling faintly at Bumblebee. “I’m happy for you.” She said, before glancing at Sam, “For you both.”

It took a moment to realize what she meant, and when he did, a vivid blush spread across Sam’s face. His discomfort seemed to amuse Mearing, for she laughed lightly. “I’m not blind, Sam, and I know Bumblebee better than most. It doesn’t take an intelligence operative to put those pieces together.”

Either his discomfort was visible on his face or Mearing noticed the disapproving line of Bumblebee’s mouth, for her humor was gone a moment later. She sounded contrite when she said, “Ah. It seems I owe you another apology.”

“It’s fine.” Sam managed, “Just... I don’t want it to be public knowledge.”

Mearing gave him an enigmatic smile. “Don’t want what to be public knowledge?” 

With that, she took a sip of wine and tipped her head in farewell, before slipping back into the crowd. Sam exhaled a long, slow breath. It’d take a while before he would be able to unpack _that_. He turned to look at Bumblebee, only to find the holoform looking at him considerately.

“Do you want to go?” He asked.

Sam glanced at his watch. Despite the fact that it was almost eleven o’clock at night, the room was still full of people. They were sitting or standing in small groups, engaged in amiable conversation or heated debate. He saw Optimus and Blanchard speaking with three men that had the unmistakable bearing of career military. He looked back at the holoform. “Should we stay?”

Bumblebee shook his head, “There’s no reason to, the reception officially ended at ten.”

Sam considered it for a few minutes, before shrugging his shoulders. There would be other dinners and meetings and negotiations before the delegation’s visit was over. He tossed back the rest of his drink, setting the glass on the table as he stood. “Yeah, sure. Let’s go.”

They made their way off the dais and through the crowd. Their progress was slow going as people stopped to introduce themselves. He shook hands, trying to commit names and faces to memory. The people were polite but curious, and it proved difficult to extricate himself from their friendly banter.

As Sam introduced himself to the Mayor of Reno and her husband, a hand came down on his shoulder.

“Please forgive the interruption, but Ambassador Witwicky is needed elsewhere.” Luis said.

Sam glanced at the other man in surprise, only to find him dressed in his NEST uniform once more—cap, service pistol, and all. Luis smiled apologetically at the Mayor, steering Sam towards the door as Bumblebee followed behind him. As they stepped into the dining area of the restaurant, the chatter of the ballroom fading away, Sam fixed Luis with an appreciative grin.

“Thanks for the assist.”

“ _De nada._ ” Luis replied.

Agents Boynton and Simmons joined them as they made their way towards the entrance. The two agents walked ahead, talking quietly into the sleeves of their jackets. Sam could just make out the front windows around the corner, and he was surprised to see that the crowd on the sidewalk hadn’t abated in the least.

“God, don’t these people have anything better to do?” He muttered to himself.

Bumblebee chuckled sympathetically. Agent Boynton turned around, fixing him with a steady look. “The car is ready, Your Excellency.”

“Well, let’s get this over with.” Sam replied, steeling himself as they cut across the lobby. As soon as he came into view of the windows, the snap of flash photography started lighting up the night. Agent Boynton opened the door for him as Agent Simmons stepped onto the sidewalk. Sam followed after her, staring steadfastly at the idling SUV. As they had earlier in the evening, the journalists and reporters shouted his name, each vying for his attention. He smiled at them politely, but he didn’t stop on his beeline for the car. He climbed into the backseat, relieved beyond measure to be going home. They made their way out of town, navigating the onramp and merging with traffic. Sam loosened his tie, letting his head fall back against the seat.

“You look like you could use another drink.” Luis said, dryly.

Sam huffed a laugh. “Luis, that sounds like a capital idea.”

“I’ve been waiting on a bunch of bureaucrats all evening.” He replied, “Believe me, I could use one too.”

The drive back to the embassy was uneventful. The headlights of their little convoy cut through the darkness, illuminating the long road ahead of them. Although it was only thirty-five minutes before they were pulling into the ground bridge hangar, it felt a lot longer. Sam climbed out of the car, waving to Ratchet as he rolled towards the Munitions tunnel. The Hummer flashed his high beams at him.

“See you upstairs?” He asked Bumblebee.

The holoform smiled at him. “Of course. I’m free until patrol.”

As the holoform dematerialized, Sam and Luis made their way into the bunker. The lights in the lobby were as bright as usual, but the hallways leading to logistics and administration were dark. Their steps activated the motion sensors, causing lights to turn on one by one as they walked. They were almost to the cafeteria foyer when Luis glanced over at him.

“Do you mind if we make a pit stop?”

Sam shrugged good-naturedly. “Nope, what for?”

“I need to speak with Ted.” Luis said. “He owes me a favor.”

Sam followed Luis as he made his way towards logistics. The hallways were empty and quiet, but he could hear the sound of a television playing somewhere nearby. Luis stopped in front of an unlabeled door and knocked sharply. The door opened a minute later, revealing a tired-looking Ted holding a half-eaten sandwich.

“Whaddya want?” He asked. “I’m on a break.”

Luis smiled, easy and confident. “I’m calling in that favor.”

The older man rolled his eyes, obviously exasperated. “What, right now? Can’t it wait?”

“Nope.” Luis said, popping the ‘p’, “Now or never, my man.”

Ted made a strangled noise of frustration, before stepping back into his office and tossing the sandwich onto one of the desks. “Fine. I hope you’re happy.”

That last comment was directed towards Sam, who stared back at the older man in confusion. Before he could voice that confusion, however, Luis chuckled. “Yeah, yeah. The clock’s ticking. Let’s go.”

Ted grabbed an enormous keyring off the desk, stepping into the hallway and pulling the door shut behind him. He led them back through logistics, flipping through the keys as they walked. They crossed the cafeteria foyer, coming to stop in front of a heavy-looking door that was painted with the words “Authorized Personnel Only”. Ted pressed his badge against the reader set in the wall, and the locking mechanism released with a loud buzz. The older man pulled the door open, sweeping his arm towards the dark corridor beyond.

“After you.” He said.

Luis walked through the doorway and Sam followed after him. Ted brought up the rear, pulling the heavy door shut behind them. They were standing in a maintenance tunnel. The long, cement corridor was dark and musty, with exposed piping running along the walls. Ted stepped around him, strolling down the tunnel as he continued flipping through the keyring.

In the back of his mind, Sam became aware of Bumblebee’s sudden scrutiny. He gave the scout the mental equivalent of a shrug. _//I have no idea.//_

Their footsteps rang against the concrete floor, echoing strangely in the enclosed space. Luis walked at his side, hands in his pockets. Ted suddenly made a pleased sound, holding up one of the many keys attached to the ring. “Got it!”

“I never doubted you.” Luis replied dryly.

Sam slanted a grin at the other man, who rolled his eyes expressively. They continued walking down the tunnel, taking the second right-hand turn that they came across. The tunnel extended for another hundred feet or so before it came to a dead-end. Ted walked halfway down the corridor before stopping in front of a large door. It was solid iron and rusted an ugly orange-red—it looked like something straight out of a sunken submarine.

Ted slotted the key into the lock, tossing a wry smile over his shoulder towards Sam. “I hope your girlfriend appreciates this. I’m missing Stephen Colbert.”

Sam frowned in confusion, “What are you talking about?”

The older man huffed a laugh, unlocking the door with an audible _clang._ Before he could reach for the handle, the door was being pushed open from the other side. Ted stumbled backwards, dropping the keys onto the cement floor. When he looked up, his face twisted in confusion.

“Who are—“

Masked men in combat uniforms poured into the narrow tunnel, M16 rifles held in a firing position. Ted blanched white, hastily backpedaling until he hit the opposite wall. Sam tensed from head to toe, adrenaline rushing through him so fast it made him feel lightheaded.

Inside his mind, he felt Bumblebee’s shock and Ratchet’s anger simultaneously.

“You can’t be in here!” Ted stammered, hands in the air, “It’s a government facility—“

An older man in fatigues shouldered past one of the masked soldiers. Sam had only seen his likeness in photographs, but he recognized him immediately.

 _Silas_.

The MECH leader unholstered his sidearm and aimed in one smooth motion, shooting Ted at point-blank range. The reverberation of the gunshot was deafeningly loud in the confined space, but Sam barely heard it. He stared in horrified disbelief as Ted fell to the ground and lay perfectly still. Sam was moving before he realized what was happening, rushing forward and falling to his knees. He grabbed Ted by the shoulder, rolling him over. The man’s eyes were vacant and flat, and Sam knew without checking his pulse that he was already dead.

Sam was distantly aware of the fact that he was breathing too fast. He looked up at Silas, who was watching him with something like interest on his face, before twisting to look for Luis. He found himself staring down the barrel of Luis’ handgun, which his friend was pointing directly at him. 

Inside of his mind, Bumblebee went very still.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked, desperately.

“Stand up.” Luis ordered.

Sam shook his head, unable to process the enormity of what was happening. Luis walked around him so that he was standing between Sam and the only exit. “Get up. Now.”

The other man’s voice was hard, completely devoid of compassion or regret. Dawning horror began to replace Sam’s confusion.

“What have you done?” He whispered, “Luis? _What have you done_?”

Luis jerked his chin at the men standing behind Sam. Suddenly, he was being grabbed by his biceps and hauled roughly to his feet. The mistreatment shook something loose inside him, and Sam’s fear and confusion and betrayal flashed into a white-hot rage.

“You _sonofabitch_!” Sam screamed, struggling to pull his arms out of the iron grip of his captors, “I fucking _trusted_ you!”

Luis’ expression was emotionless as Sam was pulled across the tunnel and through the door. He fought against the hands on his body, but there were a ten of them and only one of him. Silas walked at point, shoulders squared and hands at his sides. Suddenly, Bumblebee’s presence was in his head, sharp and insistent.

_//Sam, I need you to listen to me.//_

Sam was breathing harshly, but the tone of Bumblebee’s voice caught his attention. It was hard and serious and perfectly level—he had heard that tone from his bonded only once before, when Bumblebee had handed him the Allspark in Mission City and told him to run.

Sam went cold all over.

 _//The tunnel isn’t on any of the embassy’s blueprints.//_ Bumblebee told him. _//It must have been overlooked when the engineers re-did the plans in the 70s.//_

Sam stumbled, and it was only the grip on his arms that kept him upright.

 _//Why are you telling me this?//_ He demanded, fear sharpening his thoughts.

 _//Sam, we don’t where the tunnel leads.//_ Bumblebee replied gently, _//I’m not going to be able to get to you in time.//_

Silas stepped through an open door at the end of the corridor. Sam was pushed in after him. They continued down another long tunnel, this one with more MECH soldiers waiting for them.

 _//We’ll find you.//_ Bumblebee promised him, _//Just stay calm and do as you’re told. Tell them whatever they want to know.//_

The air in the tunnel was starting to feel fresher, like the exit was nearby.

 _//Bumblebee—//_ Sam pleaded.

“Do you want to do this the easy way or the hard way, Ambassador?” Silas asked, speaking for the first time since he had stepped through the door. It took a concerted effort for Sam to look at the man, and when he did, he saw that he was holding a taser in his hand.

 _//Do as he says.//_ Bumblebee ordered sharply.

Sam swallowed, working moisture into his mouth. “The easy way.”

Silas smiled pleasantly, but the expression never reached his eyes. “Smart choice. You and I are going to get along just fine.”

He opened his mouth to retort when Silas nodded to the man beside him. Sam turned in time to see the butt of a rifle as it smashed into the side of his face, and then darkness roared up to claim him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:** The next few chapters will contain graphic violence and torture (including, but not limited to: beatings, waterboarding, and caning). I will add tags as chapters get posted so _read them_.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** I was blown away by the reaction to the last chapter. Thank-you all for your continued support! 
> 
> **Chapter Warnings:** Canon typical violence, major character death (off screen).

Sharp, throbbing pain pierced the darkness of oblivion, pulling Sam back to himself. He groaned softly, struggling to open his eyes. He was distantly aware of the sound of an engine, of the vibration of a moving vehicle, but the sensations were meaningless. Eventually, he came to realize that he was lying on his side, one knee drawn up to his chest and hands secured behind his back. He tried to lift his head, but the motion caused agony to lance through his temples. He subsided with another groan.

He laid there for a long while, drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness. Occasionally, he felt the press of fingertips into the pulse point on his wrist or the side of his neck. It was only after someone pulled aside his collar to take his pulse again that Sam realized he had been hooded. The heavy burlap sack covered his head, effectively blinding him. It was this realization that brought Sam fully back to himself. He sucked in a great breath as he tried to struggle into a sitting position. Immediately, a heavy hand pressed between his shoulder blades, pinning him down. 

“Don’t move.” A gruff voice commanded, “Are you nauseous?”

Sam’s mouth was so dry that he had to swallow twice before he could answer. “No.”

“Let me know if that changes.”

The hand remained on his back for a moment longer and then it withdrew. Sam strained to hear what was happening around him. He guessed that he was lying on the floor of some kind of transit van. The hard, metal ridges of the cargo liner were digging uncomfortably into his side. Whatever the vehicle, Sam could tell that it was small. He could hear the driver changing gears as they drove, as well as the occasional, tonal beeping of a CB radio.

“Where are you taking me?” He asked.

“Be quiet.” The gruff voice replied.

Sam fell silent, turning his attention inwards and stretching his awareness as far as it could reach. The neural-network was dark and empty, without a trace of another spark signature. He shuddered, trepidation twisting in his guts like a knife. He had no idea for how long he had been unconscious or how far they had traveled. His bladder was uncomfortably full, but not painfully so, suggesting that it hadn’t been long. He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to wrangle the fear and anger and betrayal that twisted up inside him.

_Luis._

He cast his mind back, trying to remember everything that he had told the other man about the Autobots. He had brought Luis to the Munitions hangar more times than he could count, and before that, to the West Quad. They had spent time with Bumblebee and the others, had joked around and hung out together. Sam and Bee had told him the unofficial story of how they had met—Satan’s Camaro and junkyard dogs and pedaling his mother’s bike after his stolen car. Luis had laughed as though it was the funniest thing in the world. Sam’s face contorted in pain, and he bit his lip to stifle his sharp intake of breath.

 _You asshole,_ He thought bitterly.

How long had Luis been a double agent? Did he turn after they arrived at Jasper? Or had he been a MECH operative from the start? The thought caused Sam’s insides to twist in anxiety. If he had been in Silas’ pocket since the beginning, then Luis would have had months to feed intelligence to the terrorist leader. Luis was a lieutenant, he had access to information about weapon’s capabilities, base security, mission parameters—

Sam went cold as the last thought crossed his mind. _Mission parameters._ Did Luis have anything to do with the ambush that killed Killian and injured Hot Rod and Sunstreaker? Sam swallowed reflexively against the bile that suddenly rose in his throat. Had he let a _murderer_ into his life?

“You okay?” The gruff voice asked.

“I think I’m going to be sick.” Sam rasped.

Someone grabbed him by his arm, pulling him into a sitting position. Sam leaned back against the side of the van, swallowing wetly as he tried to get his roiling stomach under control.

“Deep breaths.” He was told, not unkindly. 

Sam struggled to obey, inhaling through his mouth and exhaling through his nose. It felt like a long time before his nausea subsided, leaving a cold weight in the pit of his stomach. He was suddenly reverentially, worshipfully thankful that he hadn’t confided in Novo about the true nature of his relationship with the Autobots or of his changed nature. Although, that thought raised another question: if Silas didn’t want him for information about the Autobot’s technology and capabilities, and he didn’t want him for the Allspark energy in the body, what in the fuck did they kidnap him for? Novo could have provided them with insider information for years without Sam ever suspecting anything. Why blow his cover now?

His thoughts were interrupted as the van braked hard, pulling into a tight left-hand turn. Hands pressed against his shoulders and chest, bracing his body as they left the pavement. The van continued over what was, to Sam’s best guess, a poorly maintained dirt road. He was sure that he could feel every stone and bump as the van trundled across the uneven terrain. When they hit a pothole with enough force that Sam’s head struck the side of the van, one of his captors snapped out, “Jesus H. Christ! Watch where you’re driving!”

Someone, the driver, Sam guessed, snapped back, “Fuck you, Murphy.”

Sam barely heard the exchange over the ringing in his ears, the impact aggravating his head injury. He was fairly certain that he had a concussion—he could feel blood drying along the side of his face, tacky and flaking. Thankfully, it didn’t seem as bad as the head injury that he has sustained during the Seekers’ attack. At least, not yet.

They drove for a while longer, at a markedly slower pace, before the van pulled to a stop. Sam could make out the harsh glare of floodlights even through the burlap bag. They accelerated again moments later, driving over smoother terrain until the van pulled to a stop a second time. Sam heard the sound of unbuckling seatbelts and sliding doors as hands came down on his shoulders. He was pulled onto his knees, before being hauled out of the van. He managed to get his feet underneath him as two men grabbed him by the biceps, and then he was being marched forward.

Although Sam couldn’t see anything, he could hear plenty. There was the sound of engines rumbling around an enclosed space, perhaps a hangar or a large garage. He could also hear people shouting commands to one another about perimeter defense and fortification. He turned his head as someone barked something about energon detection, but then a door was closed behind him, effectively cutting off the bustle of the hangar. He was led down what seemed to be a corridor—his captors had to walk closely at his side for all three of them to fit abreast. The sound of their bootfalls echoed closely, giving the sense of low ceilings and narrow walls. The light in the corridor must have been dim, for nothing pierced the hood that covered Sam’s head.

Suddenly, he was pulled up short.

“Stairs.” The gruff voice informed him, “Take a step, they’re right in front of you.”

Sam slid his foot forward until he met empty air. Slowly, cautiously, he took the first step, and then another. The men that were holding his arms guided him down the short staircase, then around the corner. He tried to keep a mental map of where he was taken, but by the fourth or fifth corner, he had lost track of where he was.

Somewhere ahead of him, Sam heard the metallic groan of a heavy door being opened. His captors led him forward, guiding Sam through the open doorway before pulling him to a stop. A moment later, the hood was yanked away and his eyes watered in the sudden light. He found himself in a small room, perhaps five meters by five meters, with a packed dirt floor and cinderblock walls. A single lightbulb swung from a short cord in the center of the ceiling, casting shadows across the confined space.

Sam turned, taking in the sight of three masked MECH agents who stood between him and the doorway.

“What do you want with me?” He asked flatly.

“Hands.” One man demanded, brandishing a pair of scissors. Sam recognized his gruff voice from the van. Warily, he turned and presented his hands to the man. The soldier stepped close, tugging at the zip ties that bound Sam’s wrists. A moment later, the restraints were gone.

“Let the front desk know if you need anything.” Another man said dryly. 

Sam narrowed his eyes, but the three men stepped into the corridor before he could reply, pulling the heavy door shut behind them. He stared at the door, which had a slot at eye-level that could be opened from the outside, before turning to regard his cell. There was a thin, ratty-looking mattress on a wooden pallet in one corner and a metal bucket in the other. Sam’s lips twisted in a grimace.

 _At least the_ Nemesis _had had a waste disposal system_ , He thought ruefully.

Sam made his way over to the pallet, rubbing his bruised, chafed wrists as he sat down. He turned his attention inwards once again, stretching his awareness across the neural-network. He was alone, insofar as he could tell, unless a mechanoid was using an egress filter that was beyond his ability to detect. Sam struggled to control the surge of panic that threatened to undo him. He had survived worse than this—he would endure.

He sat there for what felt like an eternity, straining to hear anything from outside of his cell. There was nothing—no voices, no footsteps, nothing. He wondered whether it was actually quiet in the corridor or whether the room had been soundproofed. Either way, the end result was the same: he was left to mull over his thoughts, wondering what was to come, with only the sound of his breathing to keep him company.

Sam struggled not to dwell on that, instead turning his thoughts to more practical matters. He ran his fingers over his face, checking for injury. There was a small gash above his right temple from the blow that he had received earlier. The wound had stopped bleeding, but the side of his face was steaked with blood down to his jawline. He frowned faintly, scrubbing at the tacky mess with his sleeve. It was a careful undertaking, but he managed to clean away the worst of it. Next, he turned his attention towards his other hurts. His wrists were chafed and he ached all over, but otherwise he seemed none the worse for wear. Well, except for his bladder, which had gotten uncomfortably full. He eyed the bucket in the corner of the room, weighing his options, until his bodily needs overcame his reluctance. He relieved himself quickly, wrinkling his nose at the smell. When he finished, he glanced around, looking for something to wipe his hands on. Finding nothing, he scrubbed his hands against his pants. It was only then that Sam realized he was still wearing his suit. He stared down at himself, taking in the dirt and the blood and the wrinkles, before barking a sharp laugh.

 _Carter’s going to kill me_.

He made his way back to the makeshift bed, sitting heavily on the pallet. The room was pleasantly warm, almost stuffy, and it was beginning to make him feel drowsy. It had been almost midnight by the time they had returned to the embassy, so it must be four or five o’clock in the morning by now. Perhaps longer, depending on how long he had been unconscious. He tried not to think about Bumblebee or Ratchet or Optimus, although it was difficult. He hoped they weren’t blaming themselves for what had happened. This time, the fault lay squarely at Sam’s feet.

He pressed his cheek against the cement wall, staring blearily at the door. He struggled to keep his eyes open, but his exhaustion, his head injury, and the warmth of the room were marshalling against him. He didn’t know for how long he sat there, when the clang of the latch brought him surging back to full awareness. He pushed to his feet, stepping off the pallet as the door swung open. Sam’s blood pressure skyrocketed as Novo stepped into the room, flanked by two guards. All three men were wearing black combat gear and, to Sam’s surprise, none of their faces were covered.

“Come with us.” Novo said, extending an arm towards him and beckoning with his fingers.

“Fuck. You.” Sam spat.

A fissure of emotion flitted across Novo’s otherwise impassive face. “I won’t ask a second time.”

Sam was only barely aware of the others in the room—his attention was focused solely on the man standing in front of him.

“Did you tell Silas about the ambush?” He demanded.

Novo’s face tightened perceptibly, and he half-turned to nod at the soldier flanking him. The older man stepped around the lieutenant, advancing towards Sam. He didn’t resist as his arms were pulled behind his back and his wrists were secured with another zip tie. Sam glared at Novo the entire while, seething in anger. “Did you do it, you piece of shit? Did you get Killian killed?”

Novo’s expression was carefully neutral, devoid of any emotion. The lack of a response, when Sam would have expected an ardent denial, was all the confirmation that he needed. The soldier grabbed Sam’s bicep, steering him forward. As he passed Novo, Sam turned his head to look at him. The lieutenant was near enough that Sam could make out the flecks of green in his eyes.

“I hope it was worth it.” Sam spat.

Novo met his gaze without flinching. “It will be.”

The soldier tightened his grip on Sam’s arm, half pushing and half pulling him into the corridor. Sam let himself be marched down the hall without complaint. As he had suspected earlier, the corridors were narrow and the ceiling was low. It gave the tunnel a claustrophobic air, as though the whole thing might cave-in at any moment. He was led down one tunnel, and then another, before they walked up a short flight of stairs into a large hangar. The ceiling curved above them, a steel dome reinforced with metal beams that crisscrossed its entire length. People worked fastidiously at tables lined up and down the far wall. The sounds of shouting, the rumble of electric generators, and the whine of machinery echoed across the cavernous space. The smell of oil and something acrid hung heavy in the air.

Sam was led down the length of the building towards a set of extra wide bi-fold doors. As they passed an L-shaped partition that had been erected near the center of the room, Sam stopped dead in his tracks. There, sprawled against the floor, was a mechanoid. It was massive and broad-shouldered, plated entirely in navy and gray. He watched in disbelief as a soldier attached an excavator hook to something inside its chassis, waving his hand in a ‘ _bring it up_ ’ motion. There was the sound of hydraulics and the groan of protesting metal, before something gave way with a crack. The crane lifted a complicated-looking piece of machinery from the mechanoid’s chest cavity, bringing it to rest on the floor.

Sam twisted in his captor’s grip, staring in horror down the length of the hangar. The workbenches that he had passed—the ones piled with pieces of machinery that the MECH soldiers were systematically dismantling—were actually full of Cybertronian components. All at once, Sam could identify the acrid smell in the air. _Energon._

“Oh my God.” He whispered through numb lips, “What have you done?”

“Move it.” His captor ordered, forcing Sam to stumble forward until nothing but the mechanoid’s pedes were visible around the wide partition. It wasn’t until they had led him through another door and back down into the tunnel system that Sam found his voice again.

“Jesus Christ, that was a _person_ you’re desecrating.” Sam managed, directing his words towards Novo back, “Did you kill him?”

The lieutenant gave no indication that he had even heard Sam speak. Infuriated, Sam pulled at his captor’s grip, earning himself an open-handed slap against the back of his head. His vision swam with the force of the blow, and Sam allowed himself to be manhandled down the corridor without further protest.

Ahead of them, Novo stopped in front of an open door. The room within was brightly lit, spilling light into the dim tunnel. Sam was marched through the doorway, revealing a nightmarish facsimile of the media training office. There was a chair bolted to the floor in the middle of the space, surrounded by two floodlights on tall, metal stands. A video camera was setup on its tripod near the far wall, pointing towards the center of the room. A banner hung from the wall behind the chair, displaying an image of the Earth encircled with a narrow banner that read _“A Newer World Order”._

Sam stared at the setup in stunned silence, before blurting out, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

A dry chuckle came from a darkened corner of the room. “I assure you, Mr. Ambassador, we are perfectly serious.”

Sam turned to watch as Silas stepped into the light. The older man had changed his clothes since Sam had last seen him. His fatigues were gone, replaced with dark slacks, a long-sleeved turtleneck, and a bulletproof vest. He had a utility belt strapped around his waist and wore laced-up combat boots. All and all, he wouldn’t have looked out of place on the training range with Ironhide.

Sam forced himself to meet Silas’ gaze. “The mechanoid upstairs. Did you kill him?”

Silas stalked towards him, shoulders squared and hands clasped loosely behind his back. “That is an interesting question. Did we kill him?” The MECH leader tipped his head to the side. “I’m not a philosopher, Mr. Ambassador.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at the man’s patronizing tone. “It’s not a question for a philosopher. Yes or no, did you kill him?”

Silas stopped scant inches away, looking down at him. “Can you kill a machine?”

“They’re people, you egotistical asshole.” Sam snapped, “Not robots, not machines. _People._ ”

The corners of Silas’ mouth turned up in a smile. “They refer to themselves as autonomous robotic organisms, do they not?”

“Emphasis on _organism_.” Sam replied, seething. 

Silas waved away his words. “Their bodies are composed of metal, gears, and pistons. They have a processor, not a brain, and it responds to stimuli in accordance with their programming and protocols. They’re machines.” Silas repeated, stepping closer, “And you don’t kill a machine, you off-line it. That’s the term they use, is it not?” 

Sam swallowed his angry words, suddenly aware that arguing would be a waste of breath. He fixed the MECH leader with a flat stare. “What do you want?” 

The older man chuckled, eyes raking across Sam’s face. “At the moment, you.”

The men that held Sam pulled him forward and forced him into the chair. Sam twisted in the seat, watching over his shoulder as they secured his hands to the back of the chair with a length of rope. When they finished, he gave an experimental tug on his bonds, but they had left him no slack. He turned back around, glaring at Silas. The older man had stepped up to the video camera to look into the viewfinder. Seemingly satisfied with whatever he saw, he moved away, approaching Sam with the languid grace of a predator.

“What are you doing?” Sam demanded, distantly relieved that his voice was steady.

Silas stopped in front of him, a considerate expression on his face. “I’m preparing to make my demands.” 

“Demands?” Sam repeated.

The MECH leader frowned faintly, reaching out to grasp Sam’s chin. Sam tried to pull his head away, but the older man’s grip was like iron. He turned Sam’s face from side to side, before sighing regretfully. “This won’t do.”

“What won’t do?” Sam asked, warily.

Silas backhanded him viciously, snapping Sam’s head to the side. He groaned in pain, slumping forward as the room spun around him. The older man grabbed him by the hair, yanking his head back up. Silas’ expression was sharp and assessing. He made a thoughtful sound, letting go of Sam’s hair, before backhanding him for a second time. When he pulled Sam’s head up again, his expression was a great deal more satisfied. “That’s better.”

Sam could barely hear him over the ringing in his ears. He was unable to prevent the tears that sprang to his eyes, so he squeezed them shut. The wound above his temple must have reopened, for he felt the warm trickle of blood down the side of his face. He distantly heard Silas move away before returning again a moment later.

“Open your mouth.” The MECH leader instructed briskly.

Sam slanted open his watering eyes to see the older man holding a balled-up bandana in one hand and a length of cloth in the other. His stomach twisted with anxiety, but he forced himself to meet the older man’s gaze. “Go to hell.”

Silas rolled his eyes impatiently. “Kids these days.”

Someone grabbed Sam by the sides of his face, digging their fingers into the hinge of his jaw. He struggled, feet scrabbling against the floor, but eventually Silas forced the bandana into his mouth. The makeshift gag was secured by the length of cloth, which was tied tightly behind Sam’s head. When he finished, Silas stepped back, surveying his handiwork. He seemed pleased by what he saw, for the older man motioned for one of the soldiers to join him. The two men moved to adjust the floodlights, turning them on one by one.

Sam breathed sharply through his nose, watching them with narrowed eyes. The cloth cut painfully into the corners of his mouth, no matter how he worked his jaw. It was only a few minutes before Silas walked into the center of the room, standing squarely between Sam and the camcorder. The soldier who was standing beside the camera said, “Visual’s good, Silas.”

The MECH leader straightened his back and squared his shoulders. “Very well. Begin the recording.” There was a moment of silence, and then Silas began to speak. “Optimus Prime. I regret that I am unable to deliver this message to you in person. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Leland Bishop, former Colonel of the United States army. I was dismissed from my position following the events of Mission City, when I protested the decision to unlawfully conceal knowledge of an alien invasion that resulted in the deaths of two hundred and eleven American citizens. The President of the United States signed an executive order to classify the Mission City attack as above Top Secret, an action taken without due process. I reject this decision, which dishonors the memory of every man, woman, and child who were killed in your war. I further object to the United States’ decision to aid and abet the Autobots in their continued conflict, a war that has crossed international borders without the informed consent of its governments or its peoples.”

Silas paused, seemingly for effect, before he stepped aside. Sam flushed hotly as he found himself staring down the lens of the camcorder. The MECH leader half-turned towards him, as though regarding Sam, before turning back towards the camera. “By now, you are aware that my agents have secured your liaison. As you can see, he is whole and relatively unharmed.”

Sam glared at the older man, willing him to feel the extent of his hatred. Silas continued, unaware or unbothered by the heat of Sam’s gaze, “My demands are simple. In exchange for your liaison’s safe return, you will send me two of your mechanoids. The make and model of the first is inconsequential, but the second must be a warframe.”

Sam’s heart stuttered in his chest. He knew, without a fraction of a doubt, that Bumblebee would volunteer for the assignment. The scout had admitted as much to him, all those weeks ago in his apartment. He was also sure what Silas planned to do with him—the desecrated corpse of the mechanoid in the hangar made the MECH leader’s intentions perfectly clear. Sam’s eyes snapped towards the camera as he tried to shout a warning, but the words were garbled beyond comprehension. He pulled against his bonds, shaking his head vehemently as he tried to convey his meaning.

Silas watched him impassively for a moment, before moving to stand in front of Sam, blocking him from the camera. He continued shouting incoherently, hoping to be understood.

“You will deliver the two frames within forty-eight hours to the coordinates provided in this package. When their specifications have been confirmed, we will give you the location of your liaison.”

Sam knew that Silas was full of shit. He had seen their base of operations, had seen their _faces_. The only way that the MECH leader was letting Sam go was with a bullet between his eyes. 

“If you do not comply, I will execute your liaison on a livestream.” Silas continued, his voice taking on a note of wry humor, “The United States government has a strict policy against negotiating with terrorists. I hope, for Witwicky’s sake, that the same does not apply to you.”

The MECH leader seemed to stare down the lens of the camera, before the soldier recording the video said, “All clear, Silas.”

The older man’s rigid posture relaxed minutely as he turned to face Sam. His expression was thoughtful, almost curious, “Do you think he’ll follow my demands?”

Sam narrowed his eyes at the older man, breathing sharply through his nose. Silas regarding him for a moment longer, before he chuckled. “Well, we shall see soon enough. Novo, Murphy, take the Ambassador back to his cell. Have Doctor Keaton see to him when he’s available.”

As soon as he issued the command, Sam felt hands at his wrists, loosening his bonds. A moment later, he was free. He yanked the strip of cloth down over his chin, pulling the sodden gag out of his mouth.

“Let’s go, Sam.” Novo said, gesturing towards the door. 

Sam glared at the other man, loath to follow his instructions but anxious to leave. He pushed unsteadily to his feet, making his way towards the door. He half-expected Silas to call after him, to say something mocking or cruel, but the MECH leader ignored him entirely. Sam was led back through the narrow tunnel system, taking a different route than the one they had used earlier. It was only when he turned a corner to see the open door of his cell that Sam realized he had been allowed to see the mechanoid in the hangar. Before he could ponder the implications of that fact, he was frogmarched into the little room. He turned around only after his captors let go of his arms.

Two of the soldiers stepped back into the corridor. As Novo made to follow them, something spurred Sam to call out to him, “Novo, wait.”

The other man paused on the threshold, half-turning his head towards him. Sam took this as permission to continue. “Silas isn’t going to let me walk out of here alive.” 

A fissure of tension crossed Novo’s face, but it was gone a moment later. “I’m sorry you got caught up in this, Sam. It wasn’t my intention.”

Sam stared at him disbelievingly. It was one thing to assist in his kidnapping—it was another thing entirely to assist in his murder.

“You were my friend.” He pleaded, desperately, “Luis, _please_.”

Novo’s face hardened, his eyes going dark and tumultuous. “No sacrifice, no victory.”

Sam jerked back as though the other man had struck him. Novo turned without another word, stepping into the corridor and pulling the door shut behind him. Sam stared at the door for a long time, unable to reconcile the memory of his friend with the man who had just stood before him. It seemed impossible that they were the same person. He felt numb with the enormity of his betrayal.

Sam stumbled towards the pallet, collapsing onto the thin mattress. Someone had left him a bottle of water, but he didn’t touch it. He laid there quietly, trying not to imagine what being shot to death would feel like. He thought a bullet to the back of the head would be too quick to be painful. Would the Allspark be able to revive him from an injury like that? Sam doubted it. The thought made him shudder from head to toe.

He was left to his own devices for hours. He slept for a while, tossing fitfully against the ratty mattress. He only got up to use the bathroom, returning immediately thereafter to the bed. The room was warm and stuffy, the smell of dirt and rust and urine hanging heavy in the air. It wasn’t, Sam thought, how he imagined his last hours on Earth.

He didn’t know how much time had passed before the door opened with a metallic groan. He raised his head, watching as a middle-aged man stepped into the room. He held a bulging leather bag in one hand, a folded stethoscope in the other. The thick lenses of his glasses gave him an owlish appearance.

“Alright, let me get a look at you.” He grumbled, crossing the room towards him.

Sam pushed himself into a sitting position as the man crouched down in front of him. The doctor set his heavy bag on the pallet, opening it with a practiced twist of his wrist. Sam watched with something like gallows humor as the man pulled supplies out of the bag, arranging them on the floor.

“Don’t you think this is a waste of time?” Sam asked dryly.

The doctor snorted as he folded a piece of gauze, dousing it in water. “Silas is all about image. It wouldn’t do to seem as though you’d been mistreated.” 

“I _have_ been mistreated.” Sam replied sardonically.

The doctor shrugged as he tipped Sam’s head to the side. He began swiping at the blood that had dried to the side of Sam’s face, replacing the gauze as he worked. When the doctor brushed his hair aside, seemingly to clean the laceration above his temple, he stilled. The older man gripped Sam’s chin with enough force to bruise, leaning forward until his face was scant inches from his own.

Sam jerked away, narrowing his eyes at the older man. “What’s your problem?”

The doctor stared at him, blinking his large brown eyes. “That’s… that’s not possible.”

Sam opened his mouth to demand an explanation, when understanding dawned on him. _The laceration._ The doctor straightened up, backing away as Sam’s insides turned to ice. He scrambled to his feet, eyes wide and heart thundering in his chest. “Please don’t.”

“Remarkable.” The doctor murmured, eyes roving over Sam’s face.

“I’m begging you—“ Sam pleaded.

He didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence. The doctor turned, calling over his shoulder to the guards who stood on either side of the doorway. “Get Silas down here. He’s going to want to see this.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author Note:** I am sorry for the delay in getting this posted. I had to write a chapter for my Avengers story, and then the term began, and through it all, this chapter fought me every step of the way. Thanks for your patience!
> 
>  **Chapter Warnings:** Forced stripping, graphic depiction of violence, caning, abuse of a prisoner. Proceed with caution!

Sam stared at the doctor in sinking dismay. He was distantly aware of someone in the corridor speaking into a handheld radio, but he couldn’t hear what was being said. The doctor stood in front of the door, his large, owl-like eyes roving over Sam from head to toe. His expression was curious and animated, almost eager. It made Sam’s mouth go dry with fear. Silas had been willing to go to war to get his hands on Cybertronian technology. What would he do if he found out about him?

It wasn’t long before he heard the sound of heavy bootsteps approaching the cell. A moment later, Silas stepped into the doorway. The older man looked even more intimidating in the confines of the small room.

“You wanted to see me, Keaton?” Silas asked.

“Yes!” The doctor replied, “Look at this, look!” Without warning, he grabbed for Sam’s chin. Sam jerked back, knocking the doctor’s hand away.

“Don’t touch me.” He snapped. 

The MECH leader sighed, folding his arms over his broad chest. “Look at what, Keaton?”

The doctor gestured towards Sam’s face. “His injury. Just look at it!” 

Silas crossed the space between them, causing Sam to backpedal until he collided with the wall. The older man stopped in front of him, near enough that Sam could see the gray stubble covering his jaw. His narrowed eyes flicked across Sam’s face.

“What am I looking at?” He asked.

“Are you blind? Look, there. Do you see?” When Silas pinned him with a flat stare, the doctor made an exasperated sound. “Look at the blood on his shirt. That amount of bleeding is consistent with a head wound, even a minor one. Yet look at this—” The doctor gestured in the general direction of Sam’s face, “It’s only been, what, twelve hours? Perhaps a little longer since he was injured?”

At Silas’ nod of acknowledgement, the doctor clapped his hands together. “Precisely. _Precisely_. Do you understand now?”

The MECH leader was becoming visibly annoyed. “Clearly, I do not.”

“I would expect a wound that had bled this much to be in the inflammatory stage. Perhaps it would have developed a macrophage scab by now. This wound is well on its way through the proliferative stage of healing. Look at it. Granulation tissue is already present and the edges have begun to contract.”

Silas stepped closer still, causing Sam to press back against the wall. “What are you saying, Keaton?”

The doctor huffed a delighted laugh. “I’m saying this is physically impossible.” 

The MECH leader’s eyebrows drew up in surprise. “Well, now.” He murmured thoughtfully, “That _is_ interesting.”

Sam glanced between Silas and Keaton, pulse thundering in his ears. The doctor was staring at him the way a scientist might examine a curious new specimen. Silas’ expression was far more reserved, but there was something predatory in his eyes. Something dangerous. Sam swallowed against the sour taste of fear that flooded his mouth, stammering, “I can explain.”

Silas leaned all the way into his personal space. “By all means, please do.”

Sam knew two unequivocal truths in that moment. First, Silas would stop at nothing to gain the answers that he wanted, and second, he could never learn about the true nature of Sam’s relationship with the Autobots. If Silas found out about his connection with the neural-network, or his bonds with Ratchet and Bumblebee, or his rank as newspark and Prime, then he would have all the leverage he would need. Sam would do whatever was necessary to prevent that from happening.

He forced himself to meet the older man’s gaze. “It was Ratchet.”

Silas’ expression sharpened. “Go on.”

Sam swallowed, working moisture into his mouth. He knew that Novo would have told the MECH leader about Sam’s relationship to the medic. He also knew that he couldn’t bluff his way out of a wet paper bag. Those were two very good reasons to stick as closely to the truth as possible.

“I destroyed it. The Allspark, I mean. In Mission City.” Sam stammered, “I was exposed to high levels of radiation in the process.”

“Radiation.” Silas repeated flatly.

Sam gave a jerky nod. “Yeah, I have radiation poisoning. You can get a Geiger counter if you don’t believe me.”

He had no idea whether a Geiger counter would detect the Allspark’s energy, but it would certainly detect the background radiation from his time spent in close proximity to the Autobots.

“Alright, I’ll bite.” Silas drawled, “How does that relate to this?”

“Ratchet’s been treating me. The rapid healing is a side effect.” 

Silas frowned. “You expect me to believe the Autobots have that kind of technology?”

Sam huffed a nervous laugh, suddenly aware of the perspiration beading on his forehead. “It’s the truth. It’s why I was taken to Diego Garcia and why Ratchet’s my doctor.”

“How does it work?” Keaton cut in. The diminutive man had stepped closer, adjusting his glasses between forefinger and thumb.

“I don’t know how it works.” Sam stammered, “Only that it does.”

Keaton deflated, as though let down by Sam’s answer. Before he could ask another question, Silas pinned Sam with a shrewd look. “What do the treatments involve?”

Sam exhaled a shaky breath, once again opting to stick as close to the truth as possible. “I’m not sure—I’m not awake for them. It usually takes a while. It’s why Optimus cancelled the Canadian delegation’s visit in May.”

Silas stared down at him, seeming to consider his answer. The doctor looked from Silas to Sam and back again, visibly restraining himself from speaking. It felt like an eternity before the MECH leader leaned forward, a smirk curling the corners of his mouth. “I don’t believe you.”

Sam blanched, his heart lodging itself in his throat. “It’s the truth.”

Silas chuckled softly. “If the Autobots had that technology, why not share it with the world? It would do more to endear themselves to humanity than all the speeches and banquets and public appearances combined.”

Sam scrambled to think of an answer that would satisfy the MECH leader. Something about his hesitation must have been telling, for the older man’s eyes glinted triumphantly. Without looking away, Silas called over his shoulder. “Take the Ambassador downstairs. It’s time we had a chat.”

Two large, uniformed men stepped into the room. Sam pressed back against the wall, but there was nowhere for him to go. He looked from the men, to Silas, his eyes wide and desperate.

“Wait, please!” Sam stammered, “I’m telling the truth. Why would I lie to you?”

Silas chuckled forebodingly. “I look forward to finding that out, Mr. Ambassador.”

One of the two men grabbed Sam by the bicep, pulling him forward. The other man stepped close, yanking a hood down over his head. The material was dark and soft, nothing at all like the burlap bag they had used on him in the van. The hood was cinched at the neck, and then he was dragged out of the room. He tried to pay attention to where he was being taken, but the hood impaired his hearing as well as his vision. It was not long before he was completely disoriented.

The floor abruptly sloped downwards, causing Sam to miss a step and stumble. He was forcibly hauled back to his feet as the grip on his arms became bruising. The floor continued downwards for another few meters before leveling out again. He was frog-marched several dozen paces and then pulled through a doorway on the right side of the tunnel. The grip on his arms disappeared, and Sam immediately reached for the hood. He was cuffed against the side of the head, hard enough to see stars.

“Leave it.”

Sam froze, uncertain, but before he could respond, hands were on his body. His suit jacket was pulled off first, and then his arms were pinned behind his back. His necktie and belt were removed next, despite Sam’s struggles, and then his socks and shoes were taken. The man who was restraining him stepped away, leaving Sam barefoot and blind. Moments later, he heard the sound of measured footsteps, circling around him. Sam turned his head, following the noise. It was barely audible over the sound of his own harsh breathing. The footsteps drew closer still, stopping a short distance away.

“Mr. Ambassador.” Silas murmured, causing Sam to startle in surprise, “You have a choice to make.”

Sam’s heart was pounding in his throat now. “Please, I’m telling—“

Silas struck him against the abdomen, sharp and fast with the flat of his hand. He stumbled backwards, fear sharpening into the first stirrings of panic.

“You do not speak when I am speaking.” Silas chided mildly.

Sam closed his mouth, swallowing his protest. The older man waited a moment, and when it became evident that Sam wasn’t going to reply, he continued.

“You have a choice to make.” Silas repeated, “You can go down easy or I’ll put you down hard. Either way, I’ll get my answers.”

He shivered at the wry promise in the older man’s words. Silas must have noticed his reaction, for he stepped close, leaning down to murmur into Sam’s ear. “Do you have anything you’d like to tell me?”

Sam knew there was nothing he could say that would prevent what was about to happen. He resigned himself to the fact. He would endure—he had survived worse than Leland fucking Bishop. The thought bolstered his courage, and he dryly replied, “Hail Hydra?”

Silas chuckled quietly. “I can see that you need some time to think. I’m happy to oblige.”

At some unspoken signal, Sam was grabbed from behind and dragged across the room. He was leaned forward, his hands pressed against the cinderblock wall above his head, and then his legs were kicked apart. They adjusted his limbs until he was standing spreadeagle, and then backed off, positioning themselves behind him. Sam’s breath hitched as he braced for a beating. Nothing came. The moments passed in tense silence, no one speaking a word.

It wasn’t long before Sam’s arms began to ache from the strain of holding the awkward position. He blinked sweat out of his eyes, longing to straighten his back or adjust his stance—anything to ease the burning pain that was building in his limbs. Sam’s breath grew labored, coming in short, sharp pants. He curled and uncurled his fingers against the concrete, but it offered little relief. When the pain became too much to bear, Sam sagged forward, resting his forehead against the wall. He was immediately grabbed by the nape of the neck and pulled back into position.

All at once, Sam realized Silas’ endgame. He was going to stay here until he broke or until he passed out, whichever happened first. Sam grit his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. He wouldn’t give the MECH leader the satisfaction of begging. It wouldn’t do him any good either way.

Time seemed to stretch, taking on a strange duality. The minutes ticked by slowly, interrupted only by the occasional slap or strike when Sam slipped from position. Time also seemed to lose all meaning as his entire world narrowed down to the agony in his arms, neck, and back. Sam was sweating heavily now, perspiration soaking through his shirt and trickling down his spine. He sought refuge in the quiet darkness of the neural-network, but it did nothing to distract him from the pain.

He had no idea how long he had stood there when his legs finally gave out. He landed hard against the packed dirt floor, groaning in pain. He was kicked sharply in the stomach as hands came down on his biceps. They tried to pull him back into a standing position, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate. He leaned heavily against the person that held him, his arms hanging limply by his sides. He was distantly aware of someone stepping close, and then the hood was pulled off his head. He flinched, squinting in the too-bright light.

“Do you have anything to say, Mr. Ambassador?” Silas asked.

He managed to raise his head, although his neck screamed in protest. The older man was staring down at him, his expression inscrutable.

Sam wet his lips. “I’m telling… the truth.”

The MECH leader arched an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

Sam dredged up the willpower to narrow his eyes at the older man. “Yes.”

Silas’ features did something complicated—his brow furrowed and his mouth twisted with exasperation. Eventually, he exhaled sharply through his nose. “You’re made of sterner stuff than I gave you credit for, Sam.”

“Thanks, Leland.” Sam rasped in reply. 

The older man’s lips twitched with amusement. “It wasn’t a compliment. It was a warning.”

Sam screwed his eyes shut, shaking his head. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

Silas’ amusement disappeared, replaced with cool regard. “We’ll see.” He turned his head, jerking his chin towards the men that held Sam in their grasp. “String him up.”

Sam’s stomach bottomed out at his foreboding tone, but before he could protest, he was hauled to the center of the room. The space was small, with a packed dirt floor and cinderblock walls. The low ceiling was bisected with a metal beam that ran the full length of the room. As Sam was dragged forward, a solider tossed a thick rope over the beam. The man pulled the two ends of the rope until they were even, and then he turned towards him. 

Sam’s heart clenched in terror at the realization he was about to be hanged. He struggled against the soldier’s grasp, adrenaline lending him strength. The broad-shouldered man made an irritated noise, striking Sam upside the head, as another soldier stepped forward to help him. Together they wrestled him into position beneath the beam. Rather than tie a noose, as he had expected, they quickly bound his wrists and hoisted his arms above his head. The rope was tightened until Sam was forced onto his toes, and then it was tied off.

The MECH leader stalked around him, hands clasped in the small of his back. “I am not a cruel man by nature, but I have no qualms about getting my hands dirty. Do you understand?”

“You’ve made that pretty clear.” Sam rasped.

“Good.” Silas replied matter-of-factly, “This is your last chance to avoid a great deal of unnecessary suffering. Do you have anything you want to tell me?”

Sam wrapped his hands around the rope, grounding himself. “Go to hell.”

“You’re already there.” Silas retorted, nodding to the man standing behind Sam, “Do it.”

The broad-shouldered man stepped into Sam’s field of vision as heavy hands came down on his shoulders. The soldier pulled a pocketknife from his utility belt, unfolding the blade with an audible click. Sam went lightheaded with fear. He tried to twist away as the man approached, but he was unable to gain traction against the floor. He hollered, kicking out with his feet, but the broad-shouldered man easily avoided him. The solider grasped Sam’s collar with one hand, sliding the flat of his blade beneath the material with the other. He jerked downwards, cutting through the shirt. He folded the blade, sliding it into his pocket, as he grasped either side of the torn material. He yanked, tearing the shirt and sending buttons flying. He pulled the material off Sam’s body, tossing it into the corner.

Sam knew a split second of relief, before the soldier returned, sliding his fingers into the waistline of Sam’s pants. He struggled, yanking at his bonds until the rope cut into the tender flesh of his wrists. He felt neither the pain nor the warm tickle of blood down his forearms. His entire focus was on the man unfastening his pants with clinical efficiency. The slacks were pulled down and off, before joining the tattered remnants of his shirt in the corner.

He was left in his boxers, heaving great panicked breaths through his mouth. Silas watched him struggle, his lips thinning in distaste. “I’m a militant, Mr. Ambassador, not a monster. Your virtue is safe with me.”

Sam squeezed his eyes closed, pressing his forehead into his arm. He struggled to control himself, to walk back from the edge of his incipient panic attack. 

_Deep breaths. Name five things you can see._

Silas clapped his hands sharply in front of Sam’s face. His eyes flew open in surprise to see the older man watching him thoughtfully.

“There you are.” Silas murmured, almost kindly, “You went away for a moment.”

“Fuck. You.” Sam hissed, venom in every syllable.

The older man’s lips quirked with wry humor. “Language, Mr. Ambassador.”

Sam narrowed his eyes, glaring at the man. Silas circled around him, reaching out to test the give of the rope. Seemingly satisfied with whatever he found, the older man stepped outside of Sam’s field of vision. He walked a short distance away, rummaging around a table set against the far wall. Although he couldn’t see what he was doing, Sam could hear items being moved around.

“Did your father ever beat you as a child?” The MECH leader asked, his voice deceptively mild.

Sam’s eyes fluttered shut, understanding and resignation coming in quick succession. When he didn’t answer, Silas crossed the room and grabbed a handful of his hair, giving his head a sharp shake. “I asked you a question.”

Sam opened his eyes, staring straight ahead. “No. My father never beat me.”

Silas let him go. “Ah, that doesn’t surprise me. It’s falling out of favor. My father was a firm believer of corporal punishment. He was a military man himself, you see.”

Sam swallowed dryly. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Despite the obvious slight in his words, the older man chuckled agreeably. “Quite right. In fact, my father used to make me cut my own switch from the hickory tree in our yard. It was a brutal mind game. I had to choose a switch that wasn’t too thick, wasn’t too thin, knowing it was going to be used against me.”

As he spoke, the older man walked into Sam’s field of vision. He was holding a thin rod, perhaps two feet long and as thick as a finger. Dread speared through him, and Sam began yanking at the rope.

Silas flicked the rod several times. It made an audible _swishing_ sound as it cut through the air. “You see, my father believed that anticipation of pain is more effective than pain itself.” He glanced up, meeting Sam’s wide eyes, “On this, my father and I disagree.”

“Silas, please.” Sam begged, “I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know anything else!”

The older man reached out, tapping the rod against the flat of Sam’s abdomen. “Ah, ah. No speaking without permission.”

Sam’s mouth snapped shut fast enough that his teeth clicked together. Silas strolled around him, close enough that he could have reached out and touched Sam if he wished.

“Where was I?” He mused, “Ah, yes. The use of fear _versus_ pain. As I have said, I am not a cruel man by nature, but I have the stomach for difficult work. As a result, I can say, unequivocally, that pain is the better motivator.” 

“Please.” Sam whispered, “I’m telling the—“

Silas lashed out with the rod, catching Sam across the back of his thighs. He was briefly shocked mute by the intensity of the pain. It felt as though Silas had flayed him open with the blade of a knife. It took a moment for his nerves to fully register the strike, and when they did, Sam screamed in agony. 

The older man watched him impassively, tapping the rod against his palm. “It hurts, doesn’t it? The strike of a rattan cane is often likened to a cut. Rest assured, I didn’t break the skin.”

Sam struggled to get air into his burning lungs. His position, with his hands secured above his head, was making it difficult to catch his breath. As he wheezed, Silas slowly walked behind him. Sam tried to watch the older man over his shoulder, but it caused him to lose his footing. He scrabbled at the floor with his toes, steadying himself.

“The cane requires a great deal of skill.” Silas continued, conversationally. “If you strike too hard or too fast, you lose the full effect.”

Sam squeezed his hands into fists, letting his head pitch forward. He could do this, he’d experienced worse—

Silas brought the cane down again, this time at the junction of Sam’s ass and upper thighs. He gave a strangled scream, pushing up onto his tiptoes in an effort to escape the pain.

“There are only a few places you can safely strike a person with a rattan cane.” Silas murmured, smoothing his hand over Sam’s back, “The shoulder blades are permissible, so long as you don’t cross the spine or strike the neck, but the safest spots are the buttocks and thighs. The combination of muscle and fatty tissue makes it ideal.”

Silas stepped away, and Sam had only a moment to brace himself before the rod struck again. Sam screamed at the searing line of pain that bloomed across the back of his thighs.

“The palms of the hands and the soles of the feet can be effective as well.” Silas continued, swishing the cane through the air, “Although permanent damage is a real concern.”

The cane came down again, this time across the curve of Sam’s ass. The strike was harder than the others, a blistering line of agony that caused tears to leak from his eyes. He was breathing brokenly now, shallow gasps that failed to pull enough oxygen into his lungs.

Silas continued walking in a lazy circle around him. His banal conversation was interspersed with strikes from the cane. The abuse had no discernable pattern. Sometimes the strikes would come in quick succession, one after the other, with no time to catch his breath. Other times, the strike came out of the blue, catching him across his thighs and ass, or increasingly, across his shoulder blades. Sam lost track of what the older man was saying, unable to hear him over his own ragged breathing and thundering pulse. It wasn’t until Silas struck him across an already painful welt that Sam’s words were knocked loose.

“You sadistic asshole!” He screamed, twisting his wrists, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Silas’ lips twitched in apparent amusement. “I am afflicted with an overabundance of resolve.”

“I don’t know anything, you evil sonofabitch.” Sam hissed, spots beginning to gather at the edges of his vision, “But even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you shit.”

Silas hummed thoughtfully, before lashing out with the cane again. The rod caught Sam across his forearms, causing him to black out briefly. When he came back to himself, the older man was staring at him.

“What did the Autobots do to you?” He asked flatly.

“They saved my life.” Sam rasped.

The rod struck again, this time across the front of Sam’s thighs.

“What did the Autobots do to you?”

The pain from the caning, the strain of his posture, and the lack of oxygen were beginning to make things blurry. Sam shook his head in an effort to clear his vision. Silas seemed to interpret the gesture as a denial, for the rod came down across his thighs hard enough to rock Sam forward.

“Sir?” Someone asked. Their voice was distant and distorted.

“What is it?” Silas demanded.

“It’s been thirty minutes.” The man replied. It took Sam a moment to recognize Novo's voice.

Silas sighed regretfully. “A pity. We were making progress. Take him down.”

Things were hazy after that. Someone grabbed him around the waist, and then the ropes were released. He sagged against the person holding him, heaving great lungfuls of air. The ropes were untied, revealing bruised, bloody wrists, and then he was laid down on the floor. Sam closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the cool, packed dirt. Immediately, someone slid a hand under the side of his face, lifting his head.

“C’mon, Sam. Drink.” Novo urged. 

He didn’t resist as a plastic bottle was pressed to his lips. His mouth and throat were so dry that he choked on the first shallow. As he coughed and spluttered, Novo patted him on the shoulder. When he recovered, the bottle was brought back to his lips. He took a tentative sip, and then another, before drinking deeply. The bottle was taken away before he could slake his thirst. 

“Not too much.” Novo said, not unkindly, “You’ll throw-up.”

Sam groaned softly, resting his head against the floor. His entire body hurt. The worst of the pain was concentrated on the back of his thighs, but his shoulders and ass weren’t much better. He could feel every individual strike from the cane. The raised welts burned, throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

“Tell him what he wants to know, Sam.” Novo murmured, “Please. For your own sake.”

Sam squinted open his eyes. Novo was crouched beside him, balanced on the balls of his feet. His expression was closed off and grim, his mouth set in an unhappy line. Sam stared up at him for a long moment, before huffing a tired laugh.

“Don’t like what you see?” He asked. His voice was thin and rough.

“I told you, I never meant for you to get caught up in this.” Novo muttered. It took Sam a moment to identify the expression on his face. _Guilt._

“Yeah, well, actions have consequences.” He replied bitterly.

All at once, Novo’s expression hardened. “I know that better than anyone.”

Sam groaned as he rolled onto his stomach. “I sincerely doubt it.”

His casual dismissal seemed to incense the other man. Novo leaned forward, eyes narrowed and jaw tight, as he spat, “My wife and her sister were killed in Mission City.”

Sam stared at him disbelievingly, before barking a sharp laugh. Novo reared back, shock and outrage on his face, but Sam couldn’t stop laughing once he had started. In another lifetime, Sam would have empathized with his loss. He had experienced enough grief and guilt himself to know what Novo was feeling. Any sympathy he might have felt, however, had been eradicated by the burning agony in his body and the knowledge of what had happened to the mechanoid in the hangar.

“Are you—are you serious?” He wheezed, “Some bad shit happened so you decided to become a _domestic terrorist_? That’s your justification?”

Novo’s face flushed purple with anger. “Shut your goddamn mouth.”

“You stupid, deluded bastard.” Sam rasped, “Silas is using your grief for his own ends.”

Novo leaned towards him, eyes hard and jaw tight, “I made my own decisions.”

“With malice aforethought.” Sam replied coldly, “Yes, I know.”

Novo stared at Sam for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Eventually, he set the water bottle down on the ground in front of him. “Drink it slowly. You won’t get any more if you puke.”

Sam watched as Novo pushed to his feet and stalked out of the room. He was left alone except for a soldier standing near the door. The burly-looking man was watching him closely, his facial features set in stone. Sam stared at him for a long moment, before lowering his head to the floor. The packed dirt was surprisingly cool, a fact for which Sam was thankful.

He laid there for a long while, staring at nothing and trying not to think. He drifted off sometime later, a fact that only became apparent when he was doused with water. He yelled in surprise, scrambling onto his hands and knees. He looked up to see the soldier standing over him, holding a metal bucket. As he wiped the water off his face, the soldier resumed his position near the door. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that sleeping wasn’t permitted.

Sam crawled out of the muddy puddle, making his way towards the wall. He laid down with his back to the room, pressing his forehead against the concrete. The water combined with the cool air in the room caused goosebumps to spread across his skin. He was soon shivering, too cold and too hot all at once.

Suddenly, a spark signature flared to life across the neural-network. Sam’s eyes snapped open, the fog of exhaustion vanishing in an instant. The dull, slate-gray signature was vaguely familiar, but it wasn’t any Autobot that he’d ever met. Adrenaline surged as he scrambled for his firewalls—

 _//Hello Sam._ // Skywarp rumbled.

Pure, unadulterated relief swept through him so quickly that he felt lightheaded.

 _//Skywarp?_ // He asked, incredulously.

He could feel the Seeker’s attention, reserved but concerned. _//Yes. Are you alright?//_

Sam closed his eyes. _//What are you doing here? How did you find me?//_

He felt the mental equivalent of a shrug. _//Prime called in a favor.//_

 _//That actually raises more questions than it answers.//_ Sam replied dryly. He planted his hands against the floor, pushing himself into a sitting position.

 _//The Autobots followed you to the compound.//_ Skywarp explained, _//They can’t get any closer without tripping the energon detection grid. Prime contacted Starscream for assistance.//_

A weary smile spread across Sam’s face. He carefully sat with his back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. _//How did you get past it?//_

 _//I have trans-warp capabilities.//_ He replied, as though the answer was obvious.

Sam huffed a quiet laugh, replying with sincere conviction, _//Skywarp, I could kiss you right on your big, dumb mouth.//_

He could feel the Seeker’s surprise, mingled with confusion and concern. _//Are you alright?//_

Sam’s wry humor was gone in an instant. He knew the Seeker would have felt his pain, his despair, in the moments before Sam pushed his defenses into place. He steeled himself as well as he was able.

_//Yes, I’m alright. I’m being held in an underground bunker near the airplane hangar. The compound is well guarded.//_

The Seeker’s mental presence shifted uncertainly. _//I have already gathered information about their weapons and defenses. Sam, you’re in a lot of—//_

 _//I’m alright.//_ He repeated, firmly.

_//Sam—//_

_//Skywarp, listen to me.//_ Sam interrupted, _//I think Silas has your missing ground-frame. He’s dead.//_

His words were met with a directionless swell of outrage and disbelief. Sam soldiered on, before the Seeker could do something rash, _//You need to tell Optimus not to give in to Silas’ demands. He’ll kill any mechanoid that he gets his hands on.//_

_//What have they done to him?//_ Skywarp asked flatly.

Sam hesitated, choosing his words carefully. _//I don’t know whether they killed him or just found his body.//_

 _//What have they done to him?//_ Skywarp asked again. The naked enmity in his voice caused Sam to shiver in response. 

_//I don’t know exactly.//_ He replied softly, _//I think they’re reverse-engineering Cybertronian technology.//_

Skywarp was silent for a long moment. Sam couldn’t tell whether he was processing what he’d heard, communicating with his trine, or preparing to attack the base. When the Seeker eventually spoke, his voice was clipped and to the point. _//Prime is waiting for the Americans. They expect to breach the perimeter sometime tomorrow morning. I will pass on your message.//_

 _//Thank-you.//_ Sam murmured.

He felt a brief swell of _acknowledgement_ in reply, and then the Seeker was gone. Sam closed his eyes, head pitching forward to rest in his hands. Eventually, he turned to look at the guard.

“What time is it?”

“Shut-up.” The older man replied. 

Sam snorted softly, propping his elbows against his knees. It had been pre-dawn when he’d been taken to the hangar. It was probably early evening by now. He took a deep breath, slowly exhaling through his nose. He just had to make it until tomorrow morning. Sam turned his attention back towards the neural-network, vigilant for any sign of activity, and settled in to wait.

From his position by the door, the MECH soldier watched in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a gentle reminder to pay attention to chapter warnings and tags. It only gets worse from here.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To avoid major spoilers, I have put the content warnings for this chapter in the end-chapter notes. If you have any aversions to violent content, please read them before proceeding.
> 
> Lastly, I’ve been reliably informed that it’s a party in the comments. Drop in and join the fun! (But beware of spoilers!!)

Time passed slowly, with nothing but the sound of dripping water to keep Sam company. He could hear the steady _plink-plinking_ somewhere in the walls. He drew his legs up, resting his arms across his knees. If he paid attention, the dripping almost matched the tune of _Stayin’ Alive_ by the Bee Gees. The dramatic irony was not lost on him. Sam hummed a few bars of the song in time with the steady _plink_ of water against metal. It helped take his mind off the burning pain in his thighs and backside.

Sam’s eyes roamed around the room as he waited. The small space was empty except for a table arranged against the wall opposite to the door. He could see an assortment of items from where he sat, with his back pressed against the wall. The coil of rope left an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Sam looked away, his mouth twisting with a grimace. Silas really knew how to draw out a moment for full effect. 

Eventually, Sam’s thirst outweighed the agony in his backside. He crawled forward on hands and knees until he could grasp the bottle that Novo had left behind. He brought the plastic to his lips, taking a long drink. The water was warm and stale, but it tasted like distilled heaven. He sat there, naked except for his damp boxers and shivering with cold, as he finished the last of the water. When the bottle was empty, he glanced towards the guard standing by the door.

“Hey, do you guys recycle?” He rasped.

A fissure of emotion flitted across the burly man’s face. “Shut it, kid.”

“Give a hoot, don’t pollute.” He replied dryly. The guard stared back at him, stolid and unimpressed. Sam rolled his shoulders in a shrug, wincing at the pull of abused flesh. “Fine, whatever.”

He made his way towards the wall, leaning against the cool cement with a sigh of relief. His eyes fluttered closed, head tipping back as he stretched his awareness as far as he could manage. The neural-network remained dark and still, with no sign of activity. Not for the first time, Sam cursed his limited range. He longed for the familiar comfort of Bumblebee’s mental presence.

The door opened with the groan of protesting metal. Sam raised his head, watching as Silas and two armed men stepped back into the room. His gaoler came to attention, snapping off a crisp salute as the MECH leader entered.

 _On the other hand,_ Sam thought grimly, _Bumblebee doesn’t need to watch this._

“I apologize for my delay.” Silas said, interrupting his train of thought, “I got called away.”

“It’s fine.” Sam rasped, “I can come back later if you’re busy.”

Silas glanced in his direction, something like amusement playing across his face. “You’ve got a smart mouth on you, Mr. Ambassador.” 

Sam grimaced at the memories of Thundercracker and the _Nemesis_ those words brought to the forefront of his mind. It wasn’t a pleasant association. He pushed the thoughts aside, leveling a gaze at the older man. “So I’ve been told.”

The MECH leader clasped his hands behind his back, squaring his shoulders. As he lazily paced in front of Sam, the two men retrieved the rope from the table. They tossed it over the beam in the ceiling, preparing it for him. Silas watched him as they worked, something calculating in his expression. “If you’re half as smart as I’m led to believe, then you’ll tell me what I want to know.”

With effort, Sam tore his eyes away from the rope to look at the MECH leader. “I already told you everything I know.”

Silas smiled, showing his teeth. “And I already told you that I don’t believe you.”

A ribbon of fear coiled tightly in Sam’s belly. “I’m telling the truth. I was exposed to high levels of radiation when I destroyed the Allspark. Ratchet’s been treating me. I don’t know what he does, I only know that it works.”

“Your story doesn’t hold water, Mr. Ambassador.” Silas replied, “I ask you again: why would a robotic species have the technology to cure organic injury? And why, if Optimus Prime had such technology, wouldn’t he share it with the world?”

Sam narrowed his eyes at the older man. “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”

Silas crouched down until they were eye level with one another. When he spoke, his voice was dangerously soft. “I’m asking you.”

Sam’s eyes flicked towards the rope, which hung forebodingly behind the older man. He swallowed anxiously, looking back at Silas. “I’m 21 years old.” He gritted out, “I was only eighteen when Optimus strong-armed the government into revoking my citizenship. Why would he share state secrets with a kid?”

Silas’ eyes narrowed for a scant second, before he straightened up. He nodded to the men, who advanced on Sam as a unified front. He didn’t struggle as they dragged him into the center of the room. They tied the rope around his abused wrists, pulling his arms above his head until he was standing on the balls of his feet. One of the men gave the rope an experimental tug, and then the two of them stepped away, assuming their positions around the room.

The MECH leader stalked in a wide circle around him. His face was stony and implacable, all evidence of his earlier humor gone.

“Your mistake, Mr. Ambassador, was implying that your age is a reflection of their trust in you.” He stopped directly in front of Sam, his gaze sharp, “We both know that’s not the case. Now, what did the Autobots do to you?”

Sam could see the unyielding resolve in those steely eyes. He breathed slowly in through his nose and out through his mouth, bracing himself. “I plead the fifth?”

Silas’ face hardened in anger. “The Fifth Amendment is to protect you from incriminating yourself, Mr. Ambassador.”

He twisted his wrists, grimacing internally. “Then no comment.”

“Not an option, I’m afraid.” Silas replied, striding past him towards the table.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, balling his hands into tight fists. His backside was already a tapestry of agony. He had no idea how he was going to endure another beating. The thought stayed with him as Silas’ footsteps approached from behind. Without warning, the cane landed across his upper thighs. Sam arched his back, every muscle in his body seizing all at once. The pain was unbelievable.

“What did the Autobots do to you?”

Sam panted, shaking his head in refusal. The cane came down three times in quick succession, leaving blistering agony in its wake. Sam bit his lip, struggling not to make a sound.

“What did the Autobots do to you, Mr. Ambassador?” Silas asked from behind him.

He swayed on his feet, struggling to get air into his burning lungs. The MECH leader walked around him, running a palm over the length of the rattan rod. Sam watched him through hooded eyes, tense and wary.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Silas said, conversationally.

“You really don’t.” Sam ground out. 

The older man shook his head, chuckling. “This isn’t my first rodeo, Mr. Ambassador. By now, you’re probably wondering how much worse can this get? How much pain can a person endure?”

He accompanied his words with a sharp strike across Sam’s right thigh. Sam choked back the strangled scream that tried to claw its way out of his throat. Silas tutted at him admonishingly.

“Oh, don’t hold back on my account. Let me hear you.”

The cane came down again on almost the same spot. Sam turned his head, moaning into his arm. Silas patted him on the shoulder.

“That’s the spirit.” He said, agreeably, “Now, once again: what did the Autobots do to you?”

Sam was panting loudly, unable to catch his breath. The older man watched him with exaggerated patience, waiting for him to speak.

“I’d be less concerned with what they did to me and more concerned with what they’re going to do to you.” Sam managed to gasp out.

Silas’ expression noticeably cooled. “Is that so?”

Sam nodded, laughing weakly. “Oh yeah. They’ll never stop searching for me, and when they find me, they’re going to level this place to the ground.” 

A moment later, the cane came down across Sam’s pectorals with enough force to drive the breath out of him. He gasped, desperate for oxygen, as black spots started to crowd the edges of his vision. Silas seemed to sense his distress, for he frowned faintly. He tucked the cane under one armpit and reached out, grasping Sam’s chin. He turned his head from side to side, eyes narrowed in thought. Eventually, he let him go.

“Give two inches of slack on the rope.” Silas commanded. 

A moment later, Sam was able to place his feet flat against the floor. He sagged in relief, heaving great breaths of air. Slowly but surely, the black spots in his vision began to fade away.

Silas waited until his breathing had evened out before he tapped the underside of Sam’s chin with the cane. Sam squinted open his eyes to see the MECH leader staring down at him.

“You are beginning to try my patience.” Silas gritted out.

Sam closed his eyes, resting his head against his arm. “I get that a lot.”

In lieu of a reply, the older man struck him across the front of his thighs. The pain was sharp and intense. Sam was still recovering when Silas stepped close, grasping a fistful of his hair.

“You listen and listen well.” He growled, face inches from Sam’s own, “I am going to beat you until you can’t stand on your own two feet. If that doesn’t get me the answers I want, then I’m going to waterboard you until you’re _begging_ to tell me what you know.”

Sam forced himself to meet the older man’s gaze.

“I don’t want to alarm you,” He rasped, “But waterboarding is in violation of the Geneva Convention.”

Silas’ eyes narrowed to dark slits. He stepped away, circling around Sam until he stood directly behind him. Sam closed his eyes, bracing himself. The first strike caught him across the tender part of his thighs. Sam choked on a scream, arching his back in an effort to escape the pain. Silas didn’t give him time to recover—strikes rained down over his backside, shoulders, thighs, and calves. By the fifth, Sam was crying out with every strike. By the tenth, his screams had become agonized. Still, the older man didn’t relent. The cane came down, again and again, until a blow caught him awkwardly across his backside. Sam’s eyes rolled back in his head as he blacked out, going limp all at once.

When he struggled back to consciousness, Silas was standing directly in front of him. The older man was red-faced and sweating, but his countenance was dangerously calm.

“I apologize, Mr. Ambassador.” He murmured softly, “It seems I broke the skin with my last cut. I must be losing my touch.” 

Sam choked on a whimper, squeezing his eyes shut. He could barely feel the trickle of blood down his leg over the burning, throbbing agony that was his backside. Suddenly, the rope suspending him went slack. Unable to prevent it, Sam collapsed in a heap on the packed dirt floor. The impact sent a shockwave of pain through his entire body. He moaned brokenly, pressing his forehead into the ground. He was distantly aware of Silas walking away, but before he could raise his head, he was grabbed and hauled to his feet. His legs were unable to support his weight, and he was half-pulled, half-dragged out of the room.

Silas walked ahead, leading them down the tunnel. Sam struggled to keep his eyes open, but every step sent jarring pain up his spine. He let his head pitch forward, breathing shallowly through his mouth. Moments later, he was pulled through a narrow doorway and dumped unceremoniously on the floor. He landed hard on his knees and elbows, groaning in pain. The room was small, perhaps six by eight feet in area. It was featureless and empty, except for a low, stone trough that ran the length of the back wall. Sam watched with growing dread as one of the men turned a rusty tap set in the wall. There was a groan of protesting pipes, and then water gushed from the faucet above the trough.

Sam’s mouth went dry with fear. He struggled into a sitting position, glancing up at Silas. The older man was watching him with a closed-off expression on his face.

“Please.” Sam rasped, “Don’t do this.” 

Silas’ eyes narrowed, his lips thinning in irritation. “What did the Autobots do to you?”

Sam closed his eyes, helplessness and dread joining the fear that twisted in his belly. The running water was the only sound in the room. The three men watched him in silence, their faces devoid of pity or mercy. After a moment, Silas glanced into the trough and nodded. The man standing near the faucet turned the tap, cutting off the flow of water.

Silas stepped towards him, lowering into a crouch. The older man balanced his weight on the balls of his feet, hands clasped loosely in front of him. “Last chance, Sam. Don’t be a fool.”

Sam forced himself to meet the older man’s gaze. They stared at one another, neither speaking nor looking away. Eventually, Silas’ face hardened and he straightened up.

“Do it.” He commanded.

Sam’s heart was jackrabbiting in his throat, making it difficult to breathe. He was grabbed by the biceps and hauled forward, before being forced to his knees in front of the trough. The water was dark and murky, reflecting his frightened expression back at him. The men didn’t hesitate—one grabbed him by the shoulder and arm, the other fisted his hand in Sam’s hair, and then his head was forced under the water. Sam struggled wildly, his arms and legs flailing, but a knee was pressed into the small of his back, pinning him against the edge of the trough. It was only a few moments before his lungs were burning for air. He pushed back against the hands that held him, to no avail. Spots of light were beginning to flash across his closed eyelids when he was hauled up and out of the trough. He immediately gasped for air, coughing and spluttering. They him let him get several deep breaths, and then he was being forced back under the water. They submerged him longer this time—long enough that darkness started to spread across his vision. When he was pulled up the second time, Sam was completely limp in their grasp. He panted weakly, unable to do anything else.

“I’m a man of my word, Sam.” Silas murmured, from where he sat on the rim of the trough. His voice was kind, almost apologetic. “Now tell me: what did the Autobots do to you?”

Sam stared at him, too scared and shaken to be defiant. Silas returned his gaze for a long moment, before shaking his head resignedly. “Again.”

He braced his hands against the trough, trying to push away, but his wrists were grabbed roughly and pulled behind his back. Sam didn’t even feel the pain of his abused flesh. His head was plunged under the water again, and then again. He lost count of the number of times they took him to the edge of unconsciousness before pulling him out again. Each time, Silas would look at him, patient and expectant, and repeat his question. Each time, Sam would beg for mercy, only to be ignored.

The next time that they pulled him out of the water, Sam started retching. They held him steady as he dry-heaved, but there was nothing left in his stomach to expel. When he was finished gagging, Silas nodded to someone behind them.

“Check him.”

Sam half-turned as Keaton approached, going down to his knees beside him. He hadn’t heard the doctor enter the room. The older man put a stethoscope in his ears, pressing the chestpiece against Sam’s sternum. He listened for a moment, before moving the chestpiece across his torso.

“Breathe deeply.” He instructed, without a hint of irony.

Sam barked an incredulous laugh. It was a weak, broken thing. The doctor moved the diaphragm over Sam’s chest and back, listening intently, before slinging the stethoscope around his neck.

“He’s fine, there’s no water in the lungs.” Keaton said, before adding, “He’s developed a supraventricular tachycardia. Something to keep in mind.”

Silas turned, nodding to the soldiers that held Sam in their grasp. The hauled him forward, bending him over the rim of the trough again. Sam couldn’t prevent the terrified whimper that escaped him.

“Wait.” Silas commanded, and the men stilled as he leaned forward, “Do you have anything you want to tell me?”

His voice was gentle and persuasive, a fact that was incongruous in the extreme. Sam wracked his mind, desperate for something to tell the older man that would forestall the torture. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to withstand it for much longer. 

“Please.” Sam whispered, piteously, “Please stop.”

Silas’ eyes narrowed slightly. “You know what I want.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, his pulse throbbing in his throat. “Please, I’m begging you.”

Sam never heard the older man give the command, but suddenly he was pulled forward and forced back beneath the murky water. He flailed in panic, struggling to push up, to get away, to _breathe_ , but they held him fast. The seconds ticked by, his lungs burning for oxygen as familiar dark spots began to crowd his vision. He was beyond desperation now, beyond panic, the animal part of his hindbrain screaming at him to _survive_ —

Sam was pulled out of the water just as his vision began to go dark. He heaved great gasping breaths, spluttering on the water that streamed down his face. Silas watched him impassively, and as soon as his breathing had slowed, he nodded again to the men that held him.

“Wait!” Sam gasped, “Please—!”

“Stop.” Silas said to the men, before staring at him expectantly.

Sam was trembling so hard that his teeth were chattering together. He knew that he was close to breaking; either this plunge or the one after would do it. Distantly, he realized that he finally understood what Bumblebee had told him all those months ago— _if you don’t bend, you’ll shatter._ Sam closed his eyes in resignation. He had to buy himself some time, and he only had one card left to play.

“It was the Allspark.” He rasped.

The older man’s face hardened to granite, and he nodded at the man holding him.

“Wait!” Sam cried as he was forced towards the water, “It was the Allspark, not Ratchet!”

Silas held up a restraining hand, leaning down to look him in the face. “What?”

Sam was unable to meet the older man’s gaze. “It was the Allspark. I didn’t just absorb its radiation, I absorbed its energy.”

Silas’ eyes glinted with predatory intent. “Go on.”

The grip on his biceps loosened, and Sam sagged against the side of the trough. “It’s the first law of thermodynamics. Energy can neither be created nor destroyed, it can only be transferred. When I destroyed the Cube, the Allspark energy was absorbed by my body. It’s regenerating inside me.”

“Why would the energy from an alien artifact heal an organic species?” Silas asked, but his voice was speculative instead of hostile.

“I don’t know, and that’s the truth.” Sam replied raggedly, “It’s not just healing my injuries. It’s also healing the impairments in my DNA.”

Keaton inhaled sharply. “What are you saying?”

Silas glanced towards the doctor, evidentially taken aback by his urgent tone.

Sam nodded wearily. “I’m saying what you think I’m saying. It’s halted my cellular senescence.”

The doctor stared at Sam as though he was the second coming of Christ. “That’s impossible.”

Silas frowned faintly. “Keaton, what is he saying?”

It took a long moment before the doctor could tear his eyes away from Sam’s face. When he did, he looked at the MECH leader with naked longing. “He’s saying it’s not just healing him. It’s halted his aging.”

Silas’ eyes widened fractionally in surprise, before narrowing with suspicion. “Can you confirm that?”

Keaton nodded, “Oh yes, it’s a simple matter. It’ll only take a blood draw.”

“Do it.” The MECH leader commanded.

Keaton crossed the room, picking up his leather satchel from its spot near the door. He returned a moment later, pulling supplies out of the bag and arranging them on the floor. As the doctor worked, Silas watched Sam with the intentness of a hawk watching a mouse.

“If you’re lying to me, I’ll make you regret it.” He promised coldly.

“I’m not lying.” Sam rasped, looking up at the MECH leader, “But it doesn’t matter. The effect can’t be replicated.”

The shadow of a smile curled the corner of Silas’ mouth. “That’s what the mechanoid told me about his weapons technology, and look at us now.”

The doctor wrapped a piece of rubber tubing around Sam’s arm, tying it tight. He pressed a thumb over the crook of his elbow, looking for a vein. When he found one, the doctor connected the needle to the vial, and slipped the bevel into the vein. When the tube was filled, the doctor replaced it with another. He repeated the steps until there were four vials of Sam’s blood arranged on a sterile pad. Keaton removed the needle, releasing the tubing with a well-practiced twist of his wrist. He didn’t bother giving Sam a cotton pad to staunch the sluggish trickle of blood from the puncture site.

“How long will it take?” Silas asked.

Keaton gathered up the vials, gently inverting each one in turn. “It’ll only take an hour or so for basic analysis, but the advanced screenings will take longer.”

Silas nodded in a clear dismissal. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

Keaton grasped his bag with his free hand and made his way out of the room. Silas watched him go, and then turned to look down at Sam.

“You can’t die.”

The words were as much a question as they were a statement. Sam looked up, meeting the older man’s gaze. “Not unless some asshole kills me.”

The MECH leader’s lips quirked up in a humorless smile. “I’ll only kill you if you’re lying to me.”

“And that’s a very good incentive to tell the truth.” Sam replied.

Silas pushed himself to his feet, staring down at Sam as though in deep thought. After a moment, he turned on his heel and strode into the tunnel. Two of the three guards followed after him. The third took up position in the corner of the room, watching him with sharp eyes.

Sam leaned heavily against the trough, listening to their receding footsteps. Only after the sound had faded away, swallowed by the oppressive silence of the underground bunker, did he allow himself to breathe a sigh of relief. It hurt to do so—his throat was raw and swollen as a result of the abuse he had suffered. He swallowed painfully, glancing into the trough. The water was dark and murky, and it smelled faintly metallic. He was sure that it wasn’t potable.

Eventually, Sam forced himself to look away. He was dripping wet and sitting in a puddle of cold water. He tried to shift onto his hands and knees, but the change in position sent fire up his spine. He sank onto the floor, groaning in pain. He was shivering in earnest now, in cold rather than in fear. He drew his knees to his chest in an effort to conserve his body heat, but it did little to ease the chill that gripped him. The knowledge that he could die of hypothermia in the middle of the desert was enough to force a shaky laugh from him.

It wasn’t long before his fingers and toes were numb from the cold. He tried to rub his hands together, but the simple movement took too much out of him. He laid there as the water percolated into floor, turning the packed dirt into mud. He stopped shivering shortly thereafter. A bad sign, he knew. He closed his eyes, leaning into the quiet darkness of the neural-network. It was peaceful, even though it was devoid of _sensation_ or _impression_.

He laid there like that until the sound of footsteps in the tunnel pulled him back to himself. He blinked open his eyes to see Silas walk into the room. The older man’s face betrayed nothing of his thoughts. He stared down at Sam as the two soldiers from earlier crossed the room towards him. He was hauled up by his biceps as Keaton stepped into the doorway. The doctor was visibly uncertain, wringing his hands and shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Are you sure this—“ He began, hesitantly, only to be silenced with a look from Silas. The older man turned to look at Sam without another word. At some unspoken command, Sam was dragged back towards the trough. All at once, his insides turned to ice as he realized that the waterboarding was about to continue.

He began to struggle, his voice sharp with fear, “Please! You already know everything! Stop! _Stop!”_

Silas said nothing as he was forcibly thrown over the rim of the trough. There were hands on his shoulders, his arms, fisted in his hair—he barely had the time to take a breath before he was forced under the water again. He tried to flail, but unlike his previous struggles, the soldiers held him tight. It wasn’t long before his lungs began to burn. The seconds ticked by, but relief didn’t come. Darkness began to crowd into his vision, his breath escaping him in great plumes of bubbles. Still, they didn’t pull him up.

Slowly, it dawned on Sam that they were about to drown him.

He began struggling in earnest, his feet slipping against the muddy floor. An arm came down across his back, pinning him to the rim of the trough. The darkness spread across his vision, as inexorable as a tide. He could feel water sloshing over the rim, pooling around his knees as his struggles began to fade.

His last thought before he lost consciousness was of Bumblebee. 

* * *

Bumblebee stood at Cliffjumper’s side, surveying the terrain. NEST’s forward operating base was located approximately six miles southwest of the target. MECH had appropriated an abandoned airstrip in the foothills of the Clan Alpine Mountain range to serve as their main point of operations. The surrounding landscape consisted of rugged highlands and narrow valleys, dotted with an assortment of ponds and small lakes. Thankfully, the vegetation was scrubby but abundant, providing adequate cover for the Autobot base. 

His sensors detected another incoming vehicle. He turned his helm in its direction, watching as the dark-colored SUV made its way up the improvised dirt road towards the base. It parked a short distance away, and four military officers climbed out of the cab a moment later. His wingflaps flared with barely restrained frustration. The Americans had taken their time mobilizing a response. They were no closer to launching an assault than they had been six hours ago.

Cliffjumper’s electromagnetic fields swelled with sympathy. _//Thatcher and Morshower have arrived. It won’t be long now.//_

Bumblebee stared through the darkness in the direction of the compound. In addition to his detailed scans of the terrorist camp, Skywarp had also shared the memory files of his conversation with Sam. Although his bonded had been quick to raise his firewalls, his agony and fear had been unmistakable. The thought caused his battle protocols to _ping_ in warning as they tried to come on-line. Not for the first time that night, and against every instinct he possessed, Bumblebee forced them back into standby.

 _//West-southwest is clear.//_ Arcee’s reported over the tactical network.

 _//East-southeast is also clear.//_ Chromia added a moment later.

 _//I’m detecting some activity East-northeast.//_ Sideswipe said, _//Do you want me to investigate?//_

 _//Negative, Sideswipe. Maintain your position.//_ Prowl replied, calm and composed as always. The strategist’s unflappable manner was usually reassuring. Tonight, it only served to stoke the fire of Bumblebee’s restless anxiety.

His brooding was interrupted by the arrival of Hound and Trailbreaker. The two partners had been assigned to the vanguard for the assault. Hound, because of his holoform, and Trailbreaker because of his skill with infiltration. They inclined their helms as they approached, and Bumblebee returned the greeting.

“ _Has there been any word from Jazz?”_ Hound asked.

The saboteur had been sent to search for any weaknesses in the energon detection grid that surrounded the MECH base. Cliffjumper shook his helm minutely.

_“Nothing yet.”_

Hound chirruped a string of _frustration-disappointment-emphasis_ glyphs in response. Before Bumblebee could reply, he felt a painful _twist_ inside his mind. His fuel-pump missed a beat at the odd sensation. As he turned his attention inwards, the pain sharpened abruptly. All of a sudden, the spark bond twisted in on itself, imploding like a star going supernova. Bumblebee swayed on his pedes, reaching out to steady himself against Cliffjumper. 

The next moment, the spark bond was gone.

Its absence was a black hole inside his mind, obliterating all rational thought. He was distantly aware that he was shrieking, a guttural, frenzied sound of agony and grief. There were servos on his body, then, grabbing and restraining him as he tore at the protective metal that covered his spark casing. His battle protocols roared to life, and he was unable and unwilling to stop them.

“Cliffjumper! Take him down!” Someone commanded, sharp and urgent. The next minute, his legs were swept out from under him as the scouts wrestled him to the ground. He screamed in helpless rage, his capacitators charging in a rush, but his arms were pinned against his sides. He bucked and writhed, desperate to end the horrible, aching emptiness that was consuming him from the inside out.

He felt the touch of another mechanoid’s electromagnetic fields, grief-stricken but collected. There were digits on his forearms, pulling at the panel that covered his medical port.

“Let me in, Bumblebee.” Ratchet commanded gruffly.

The words didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. He heard Ratchet curse to himself, and then the metal plating was pried off his port. A moment later, he felt a sharp _push_ and then a medical connection snapped to life between them. He watched helplessly as warnings flashed across his primary visual display, alerting him of battle protocols being offlined, sub-routines being reordered, and active/inactive commands being reprioritized. Through it all, the yawning _nothingness_ continued to grow, spreading across his processors like a virus.

Then, all of a sudden, like reality reasserting itself after a fever, the spark bond snapped back into place. It was quiet and still, Sam’s presence no more than a pinprick in the distance, but it was there. Bumblebee went limp all at once, too weak to do anything else. He ex-vented softly, blowing up plumes of dust from the ground. He barely noticed. His entire attention was focused on the speck of silvery light in the darkness.

At his side, Ratchet worked on in silence.

* * *

Sam retched violently, expelling the dirty water that had filled his lungs. When at last he could breathe again, he squinted open his eyes. Silas was crouching at his side, a cold smile on his face.

“ _Now_ I know everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Warnings:** Caning, waterboarding, major character death, attempted suicide.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Warning:** Graphic medical content in the first part of the chapter. After that, canon-typical violence.
> 
> For reference, [[this picture]](https://cdn11.bigcommerce.com/s-w0o2nhi2w1/images/stencil/1024x1024/products/77/82/hospital_old_fashioned__94868.1511523600.JPG?c=2) was the rough inspiration for the hospital ward.

Things were hazy, for a time.

Sam lay against the muddy floor, too weak to do anything else. He could hear the sound of voices, but they were distant and distorted. He closed his eyes. He hurt all over, but nothing compared to the burning agony in his throat and lungs. It felt as though he had gargled broken glass.

There were hands on him then, pulling him to his feet. He didn’t resist. He couldn’t. He was half carried, half dragged out of the room and down the tunnel. Sam tried to open his eyes, to see where they were taking him, but the effort was too much. It wasn’t until he heard the sound of a door opening with a pneumatic _hiss_ that he raised his head. The room in which he found himself looked like a scaled-down version of the hospital ward on Diego Garcia—if it had died and gone to hell. It was cramped and dark, smelling of antiseptic and bleach. There was an assortment of outdated medical equipment along the walls, including six iron-framed hospital beds. Sam’s stomach bottomed out as he was pulled towards the nearest one. Dr. Keaton and an unfamiliar corpsman were already standing by its side, their backs turned towards him.

Sam tried to struggle, but he was wrestled onto the mattress without much issue. His heart was hammering in his throat now, making him lightheaded and nauseous.

“Wh-what are you doing?” He managed to rasp.

Keaton glanced over his shoulder, and whatever he saw caused the corners of his mouth to turn down. “Secure him, please. This is delicate work.”

The men who had carried him to the ward stepped forward. One pinned his wrists to the mattress and the other pulled a set of heavy-looking restraints from a cabinet beside the bed. Sam’s breath started coming quicker as he tried to twist out of the soldier’s grasp. The man grimaced, lifting a knee up onto the mattress and bearing his full weight down on Sam’s arms. He watched, helplessly, as the restraints were secured first to the bedframe and then to his wrists. They were thick and brown, and fastened with a wide buckle. The process was repeated on Sam’s ankles. When he was finally secured, the two men moved away, taking their positions by the door.

Sam was hyperventilating now, breathing in quick, shallow pants that left him feeling dizzy. When Keaton was finished with whatever he was doing, he stepped up to a large, chipped oxygen tank that stood by the bed. He twisted the dial, flicked his finger against the gauge, and then unwound the oxygen mask that hung over the metal stand. He pressed the hard silicone over Sam’s nose and mouth, securing the strap around his head.

“Alright, prep him.” Keaton instructed, before striding towards the cabinets at the far end of the room.

The corpsman stepped up to the bed, grasping Sam’s hand to slip a pulse oximeter over his finger. He moved away, returning a moment later with an assortment of tangled wires. He placed them on the bed, fastening electrodes to the ends of the wire leads, before pressing the sticky pads across Sam’s chest, forearms, and ankles. He attached the wires to an old, clunky-looking piece of equipment, and then flipped a switch. Immediately, Sam’s pulse appeared as a thready green line bleeping across the small monitor.

Seemingly satisfied, the corpsman took a stethoscope from the bedside table, tucking it into his ears and pressing the drum against Sam’s chest. He listened, his brow furrowed with concentration. Dr. Keaton returned, setting a metal tray on a rolling table and pushing it towards the bed.

“Well?” He asked.

“I don’t detect any pulmonary edema.” The corpsman replied. “The EKG and O2 sat look okay.”

Keaton nodded as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves. “Very good. Let’s begin.”

“What are you doing?” Sam asked, his breath fogging the oxygen mask.

Neither man acknowledged him. He tried to lean away as they approached, but the restraints made evasion impossible. Once again, rubber tubing was tied around his arm, and once again, they drew his blood. The corpsman passed equipment to Keaton as he worked, and Keaton passed the full vials to the corpsman, one at a time. When he had drawn over a dozen vials, the doctor withdrew the bevel and untied his arm.

“Put the first three in the analyzer. The others can go in storage for now.” Keaton instructed.

The corpsman gathered up the vials, stepping around the doctor and crossing the room. Keaton leaned forward, pulling the oxygen mask off Sam’s face and hanging it on the tank stand.

“Keaton, please.” Sam rasped, through dry, cracked lips, “What’s happening?”

Again, the doctor ignored him. He picked up a long swab with a rough-looking tip. “Open your mouth.”

Sam stared at the older man, “No. Tell me what you’re doing.”

Keaton made an impatient sound, before glancing at the soldiers standing by the door. “A little help, please?”

The men exchanged a glance, before the larger of the two stepped forward. He came to stand beside the bed, looking across the mattress at Keaton, as though for direction. The doctor rolled his eyes. “Open his mouth.”

Sam tried to twist his head away, but the man grabbed him, digging his fingers into the hinge of his jaw. As soon as his mouth was opened, Keaton swabbed the inside of his cheek. It was unpleasant, like having a wirebrush dragged across the sensitive skin. It lasted only a moment, and then Keaton was sliding the swab into a long, clear tube. He capped it off, placing it on the metal tray.

“The samples are running.” The corpsman said, crossing the room towards them.

“Very good.” Keaton replied, pulling a bundle of blue-colored material from the bedside cabinet, “Let’s complete the incisions now. That will give us time to prepare for the biopsy.”

He handed the material to the corpsman, before retrieving another pile for himself. It took Sam a moment to realize that they were donning surgical gowns. The knowledge caused his heartrate to trip into double-time. He started pulling frantically on the restraints that bound him to the mattress, as the heart monitor started beeping in alarm. For the first time, the corpsman glanced down at him. The shadow of a frown passed over the young man’s face.

“Should we sedate him?”

Keaton glanced over, as though in surprise. “It would be a waste of anesthesia. His healing factor would only break it down.”

The way they spoke about him, as though he weren’t able to understand them, sent ice skittering up Sam’s spine. He met the corpsman’s gaze, wide-eyed and terrified, “Please, _please_ don’t do this.”

The corpsman shrugged, retrieving a clipboard and pen. “Whatever you think, Doctor.”

Keaton hummed considerately. “I’ll begin with the Number 11.”

The corpsman turned, retrieving a silver scalpel from the tray on the bedside table. He handed the instrument to Keaton, and then clicked his pen. “Ready.”

The doctor’s hand came down on Sam’s elbow, his eyes narrowing in concentration. Sam struggled, yanking against the restraints as the heart monitor beeped urgently. Keaton leaned his weight into Sam’s arm, pinning it to the mattress. A moment later, the scalpel pressed down, parting his skin. Sam screamed in surprise and pain as blood welled up in its wake, running down his arm.

“First incision, one inch in length, at 2:54 AM.” Keaton murmured. The corpsman scribbled something down on the clipboard.

“Stop, please—Keaton, stop!” Sam begged, trying to twist his arm away.

The doctor’s grip tightened on his elbow. He handed the scalpel back to the corpsman, accepting a folded square of gauze from him in return. He pressed it against the incision, wiping away the blood. When he’d finished, Keaton dropped the soiled gauze in a kidney dish that the corpsman held out to him.

Sam had barely caught his breath when the scalpel came down again. The pain was sharper this time, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the violation. He could feel his blood pooling in the crook of his elbow, warm against Keaton’s cool latex glove.

“Second incision, one inch in length, one inch below the first, at 3:07 AM.”

The corpsman scribbled that down, too. The process of wiping away the blood was repeated, and then Keaton asked for the Number 16 blade. Sam opened his eyes, vision blurry with tears, to watch as the doctor brought the scalpel down again. He couldn’t stifle the scream that forced its way from his throat. By the time that Keaton had incised ten neat lines down the length of his arm, Sam was crying silently. He stared straight up at the ceiling, tears leaking into his hair, as the doctor and the corpsman remarked to one another about clotting and blood loss.

He almost missed the wispy-white spark signature that flared to life on the neural-network. It wasn’t until he felt a shock of _surprise_ and _rage_ that Sam took notice of it. With effort, he turned his attention inwards, reaching out to touch the familiar glow.

“Thundercracker.” He rasped, weakly.

Keaton glanced over at him in surprise.

 _//Sam.//_ The Seeker murmured, smoothing across his mind, _//What have they done to you?//_

Sam shook his head, unable to reply. He knew it was a moot point—without his firewalls, which he was incapable of erecting, the Seeker would know exactly what had been done to him. He felt Thundercracker shift, his mental presence _sharpening_ perceptibly.

 _//Listen to me.//_ He instructed, voice serious and composed, _//It’s time.//_

“Time for what?” Sam asked, throat bobbing as he swallowed.

 _//The assault has begun. Stay quiet and unobtrusive. It will be over soon.//_ Thundercracker replied, a dark note of promise in his words.

Keaton had turned in his seat to frown down at him. He reached out, grasping Sam’s chin in one hand as he pulled a penlight from his shirt pocket with the other. He flashed the light across Sam’s eyes, holding tight as he tried to pull away. The corpsman appeared at Keaton’s side, staring down at Sam.

“What is it?” He asked.

Keaton clicked off the penlight, sliding it back into his pocket. “I’m not sure. He may be hallucinating.”

The corpsman glanced at the monitors, confusion furrowing his brow. “His O2 sat is still in the green.”

“I know.” Keaton replied, his frown deepening. He leaned into Sam’s line of sight, holding up three fingers, “Sam? How many fingers do you see?” He tried to turn his head away, but Keaton held him tight, “Sam, answer me.”

“Don’t touch me.” He whispered.

“Do you know today’s date?” The doctor asked.

“Go to hell.”

Keaton let go of his chin with a derisive snort. “He’s fine. Monitor the incisions every fifteen minutes, and prep him for the biopsy at eight.”

“Yes, sir.” The corpsman replied, taking the stool that Keaton vacated. The doctor gathered up the supplies and soiled gauze, carrying the tray to the back of the room. Sam could hear his footsteps receding, shoes ringing against the concrete.

He closed his eyes again, reaching out to the familiar glow in his mind. He had the impression that Thundercracker was observing him closely, but otherwise the Seeker’s presence was walled-off and unreadable. He leaned into it, grateful for a distraction from the pain. He drifted like that for an interminable time, neither of them speaking a word, when the corpsman leaned forward.

“Incisions one through three have stopped bleeding. No sign of inflammation. Incisions four through nine have sluggish discharge. Incision ten is still bleeding freely. The subject shows no sign of infection.”

Sam cracked open his eyes, turning his head to look at him. “I’m a person.”

The corpsman glanced up for a brief second, before looking back at his clipboard. He scribbled a few more notes, resolutely ignoring him. It caused hot anger to flare up inside Sam’s chest.

“I’m a person, you asshole.” He hissed, leaning forward as far as his bonds would allow, “Not a subject. I’m a human fucking being.”

“You should get some rest.” The corpsman said without looking up. It was the first time that he had spoken to Sam directly. “You’re scheduled for surgery in four hours.”

Sam felt Thundercracker brush against his mind.

 _//Brace yourself.//_ He warned.

A moment later, Sam heard a series of percussive explosions. The sound was distant and muffled, but it still caused the equipment to rattle against the walls and dust to float down from the ceiling. He closed his eyes in relief.

“What was that?” The corpsman demanded, on his feet in an instant.

The soldiers by the door were speaking urgently into their radios. From somewhere nearby, a strident alarm began to wail. Sam took a deep breath, and then another, waiting.

“Get those restraints off him,” One of the soldiers barked. When the corpsman hesitated, his voice turned sharp, “ _Now!_ ”

The corpsman’s hands scrambled over the heavy, leather buckles. At the same time, one of the soldiers stepped up to the opposite side of the bed, repeating the action on his other arm. His wrists were freed and then his ankles, and then he was being dragged off the bed.

“Wait!” The corpsman cried, “I need to monitor—“

“Shut up, you moron.” The soldier growled, grabbing Sam by the bicep, “Move.”

“What’s the meaning of this?” Keaton demanded, hurrying down the room towards them.

The soldier standing by the door unholstered his sidearm, gesturing in the direction of the alarm. “Do you hear that? That’s the proximity alarm. The timeline just got stepped up in a big way.”

Sam could barely keep his head up, but he could still see the way that Keaton’s eyes bugged out of his skull.

“I’ll get the samples.” He stammered, making to turn around.

“Shut up and move out. We have five minutes to get to the rendezvous point.” 

“Yes, alright. Of course.” Keaton replied, coming back to himself. He turned to look at the corpsman, “Destroy it all.”

The younger man paled, swallowing nervously, “B-but I need to go with—“

“You have your orders.” The solider snapped.

Sam was half-carried out of the room. The second solider followed behind, his pistol held at his side. Keaton trailed after them, his face set with grim determination. They stopped halfway down the tunnel so that the soldier could sling Sam’s arm around his shoulders, wrapping his other arm around his waist. He leaned heavily against the older man, unable to do anything else. In the distance, he could hear the sound of shouting, of engines starting up, and the heavy tread of pounding feet.

All at once, spark signatures began flaring to life across the neural-network. They came almost too fast for Sam to recognize—a riot of color and sensation that threatened to overwhelm him. Then, like a comet streaking across the firmament, Bumblebee’s winter-white glow appeared. Sam’s knees went weak in relief, causing his captor to curse and readjust his grip. The scout brushed across his mind, as gentle as a breeze. His mental presence was calm, focused, and intent. It was a strange counterbalance to the frantic energy that was making Sam’s skin crawl. 

_//I’m almost there.//_ Bumblebee promised.

Far ahead, down the tunnel and around the corner, the sound of staccato gunfire filled the air.

“Shit!” The soldier carrying up their rear swore, “How have they breached the perimeter already?”

His companion scrubbed a hand over his face, “We need to find another way out. Could we try the hangar?”

The soldier ground his teeth together, seeming to weigh his options. “It’s worth a shot.”

Another volley of explosions caused the lights to flicker out. The tunnel was plunged into darkness for a scant moment before they blinked back on again. The two soldiers met each other’s gaze.

“Let’s go.”

They turned around, re-tracing their footsteps. The sound of gunfire and yelling grew fainter as they made their way deeper into the compound. Sam barely noticed. He was clutching onto Bumblebee’s winter-white glow as if it was a lifeline. The soldier who was carrying him cursed under his breath, readjusting his grip on Sam’s waist.

“Pick up your goddamn feet.” He growled, “Or I’ll put the bullet in you myself.”

They had barely made it halfway to the hospital ward when Bumblebee _nudged_ him meaningfully. This closely intertwined, Sam didn’t need to ask what he wanted. He understood.

Sam closed his eyes, falling to his knees like a hanged man with the rope cut. The soldier swore viciously, grabbing at his arm, but a moment later, he was gone. It all happened very quickly. There was a muffled gasp, Keaton's strangled scream, the crack of a gunshot, and then the sound of bodies hitting the floor. A moment later, there were warm hands clasping the sides of his face. He opened his eyes to the sight of Bumblebee kneeling on the ground in front of him. The holoform’s features were a study of control, but there was anguish in his eyes.

Sam laughed weakly. “You found me.”

Bumblebee’s face twisted with emotion as he gently pulled Sam into his arms. 

“I told you I would.” He murmured.

Behind them, Sam heard the heavy thump of a body being rolled over. He turned his head to see Hound’s holoform crouching over one of the soldiers. He was holding the man’s semi-automatic rifle in his hands.

Sam turned back around, looking Bumblebee in the eye. “Is he dead?”

They both knew he wasn’t referring to the three men that Bumblebee had just systematically executed. The holoform shook his head minutely.

“We haven’t found him yet, but it’s only a matter of time.” He replied, “The compound is surrounded.”

Hound straightened to his full height, glancing down both sides of the tunnel. “We need to move.”

Bumblebee’s emotions disappeared, replaced with cool composure. He stood up, helping Sam to his feet. “Can you walk? We need to get to a safe room.”

“Yeah, I can walk.” Sam rasped. There was another explosion, louder than the first two. He raised his head, watching as cracks spiderwebbed across the ceiling. “Is this place going to come down?”

“No.” Hound said, taking point.

Sam didn’t bother asking how he could possibly know that. He leaned against Bumblebee, who pulled Sam's arm around his shoulders, and together they made their way deeper into the tunnel system. The sound of gunfire was behind them now, distant but growing louder. They took a corner and the floor sloped upwards. Hound went first, walking up the incline and checking the hall, before glancing towards them.

“All clear.”

Bumblebee helped him up the incline and down the next tunnel. The lights were flickering every few moments, swallowing them in darkness. The holoforms continued forward, unimpaired by the loss of sight.

In front of them, Hound suddenly went very still. Bumblebee had Sam down on the ground before he knew what was happening. His bonded plastered himself over Sam’s body as gunfire erupted in the narrow tunnel. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the sudden agony of a bullet, when silence fell a moment later. He raised his head to see Hound standing halfway down the tunnel, his rifle held in a firing position. The sentry stalked forward another dozen paces, checking the next corner, before nodding sharply.

Bumblebee pulled Sam to his feet, murmuring an apology at his pained groan. They continued down the corridor until they came to a solid-looking door set in the rough-hewn wall. Hound tried the handle, and when it didn’t turn, he handed the rifle to Bumblebee, and then walked straight through the metal hatch. It opened a moment later with a high-pitched groan of rusted hinges. The room within was of middling size, perhaps ten by fifteen meters. It was packed with dusty crates and an assortment of equipment covered in long, white sheets. Bumblebee helped Sam over the lip in the doorway. When they had stepped into the room, Hound put his shoulder against the door, pushing it shut behind them.

Bumblebee guided him to sit down against the far wall. His brow furrowed in concern at the rictus of pain on Sam’s face. He reached out a hand, smoothing over Sam’s sweaty forehead.

“You’re okay.” He murmured, “It won’t be long now.”

Sam nodded mutely. His attention was captured by the sound of tearing fabric. He turned his head to see Hound approaching with strips of cloth in his hands. The sentry crouched beside Bumblebee, an apologetic smile on his face. “It’s the best we can do until Ratchet arrives, I’m afraid.”

He allowed the holoform to bind his wounds. The incisions were bleeding freely, causing rivulets of blood to trickle down his arm and over his fingers. Bumblebee watched him work, sharp-eyed and silent. Sam swallowed dryly, “Where is he?”

Hound glanced up. “Ratchet? He’s waiting in the rearguard until the all-clear.”

Sam frowned faintly. “Why?”

Bumblebee squeezed his hand. “Ratchet isn’t a field medic. He’s kept out of battle unless absolutely necessary.”

Sam winced as Hound tightened the bandages. He glanced down, watching as red bloomed across the faded linen.

“That makes sense, I guess.” He replied. His voice was permanently raspy now. He sounded like a life-long smoker.

Bumblebee squeezed his hand again, “He’ll be here soon. The outbuildings and the hangar have been secured. Lennox and Epps are clearing the bunker now.”

Sam nodded, closing his eyes and resting his head against the cinderblock wall. He hurt all over, an omnipresent agony that left him feeling feverish. He could feel Bumblebee’s concern through their bond, stark but controlled. The holoform’s hands smoothed over his arm, fingertips tracing invisible patterns into his skin. After a long while, Sam slanted open his eyes. Bumblebee was frowning faintly, his brow furrowed with an expression that Sam couldn’t interpret.

Eventually, Bumblebee met his gaze.

“I felt you die.” He said, quietly.

Sam angled his head to stare sightlessly at the ceiling. “He drowned me.”

Bumblebee’s hands stilled, his presence darkening forebodingly. “He drowned you.”

Rather than the explosive rage that Sam might have expected, Bumblebee was calm. Collected. Dangerously composed. Not for the first time, he was reminded that his bonded was a soldier who had been at war for longer than his civilization had been bipedal. For once, the thought was a source of comfort rather than disquiet.

Sam lifted his shoulder in an abortive shrug. “He was curious to see what would happen.”

Bumblebee leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss against his temple. “I’m sorry.”

Sam looked at the holoform, a frown turning down the corners of his mouth. “It wasn’t your fault.”

A fissure of tension flitted across his face, almost too quickly to notice. They both knew where the blame for Sam’s torture lay. “Perhaps not, but I’m sorry all the same.”

The sudden sound of gunfire in the tunnel made Sam jump. Bumblebee’s hands stroked over his arms and chest, soothing him. “It’s alright, it’s ours.”

Hound stood in the center of the room, his eyes narrowed at the door. A moment later, there was a loud bang against the metal.

“All clear.” Lennox’s muffled voice called out.

The sentry shouldered his weapon, stepping forward to pull open the hatch. Lennox stood in the doorway, wearing head-to-toe combat gear and holding a formidable looking assault rifle in his hands. The Major’s eyes swept the room, landing on Sam. His lips quirked in a wan smile.

“Hey kid. Ready to go?”

Sam’s smile in return was small but genuine. “You have no idea.”

Lennox stepped aside to allow the combat medic to enter. The corpsman crossed the room towards him, kneeling at his side. He unshouldered his pack, unzipping it with well-practiced hands.

“Good morning, Mr. Ambassador.” He said, pulling supplies out of the bag, “My name’s Michael. How’re you doing?”

“I’ve had better days, Mike.” Sam replied dryly.

The corpsman chuckled understandingly. “I imagine so. First Aid has briefed me on your vitals. I’m going to give you a cursory exam, and then we can get out of here. Is that alright?”

He nodded faintly. The corpsman quirked an encouraging smile at him as he began to work. His lacerations were re-bandaged, quickly and efficiently, and then he was checked for broken bones and internal injuries. The corpsman’s hands smoothed over his ribcage and palpated his stomach. Satisfied with whatever he found, Mike quickly packed up his supplies.

“He’s good to travel.” He said, speaking to Bumblebee.

Bumblebee nodded, straightening up and helping Sam to his feet. As they made to walk towards the door, the corpsman’s eyes fell to the welts that peppered Sam’s shoulders and the backs of his legs. His expression was immediately shuttered behind a mask of calm professionalism. To Sam’s intense relief, he didn’t say a thing.

Lennox stepped forward, unstrapping the flak vest from his chest and pulling it off. “C’mere, Sam.”

Sam stood passively as the heavy armor was pulled down over his head. Lennox stepped close, fastening the straps around his torso with sure hands. Sam’s lips quirked up in a wry smile. He must look a sight: naked except for a flak jacket and boxer shorts, covered in filth and blood.

“Can you make it to the hangar?” The corpsman asked seriously, “There’s a stretcher waiting for you. We can have it brought down, if you need it.”

Sam turned to look at the man, his face hardening with resolve. “No. I’m walking out of here on my own two feet.”

The corpsman nodded, acquiescing without complaint. Sam stepped into the tunnel, followed closely by Bumblebee. The narrow corridor was filled with a dozen NEST soldiers, all of them serious and alert. Sam found himself sandwiched between Bumblebee and the corpsman, with Lennox at point and Hound taking up the rear. The soldiers followed behind. Their procession was silent except for the sounds of bootsteps and the rustle of body armor. The turned a corner into a long, sloping tunnel that led to a squat door. The door was standing open, spilling predawn light into the tunnel. There were two bodies slumped near the exit. The air was heavy with the smell of gunpowder and the copper tang of blood.

Bumblebee gently squeezed his elbow, urging him forward. Sam put one foot in front of the other, stepping over the bullet casings littering the ground. He stared resolutely ahead until they passed the two bodies, and then he glanced down. He recognized one of them as the gruff-voiced man from the van. Murphy, he thought his name was.

Lennox pushed open the door, and a moment later, Sam stepped into the hangar. His eyes were immediately drawn to Knock Out, who stood staring down at the remains of the mechanoid. His optics were preternaturally bright, brimming with some undefined emotion. To Sam’s surprise, Thundercracker and Skywarp stood nearby. They seemed to be gathering the mechanoid’s components that had been laid out on the hangar floor.

As though sensing his scrutiny, the medic turned to look at him. His plating looked almost black in the predawn light.

Sam swallowed against the emotion that thickened his throat. Before he could say or do anything, however, a flash of yellow caught his attention. He turned his head, a weary smile turning up the corners of his mouth. Bumblebee was crouched near the tunnel entrance, watching as he approached. His smile faded a moment later when he saw the gouges that marred the scout’s chestplates. He glanced up at him, uncertainly.

“I’m fine now.” The holoform murmured from his side, “Don’t worry about me.”

Sam looked at him, understanding passing between them without a word. The corpsman stepped around him, striding towards the gurney that was waiting several meters away.

“Alright, come on. I’ll help you up.”

Sam shook his head. “No. Thank-you.”

The corpsman frowned in concern, “Sir—“

“I said I was walking out of here on my own two feet, and I meant it.” Sam replied, softly.

The corpman’s frown deepened and he opened his mouth to argue. Bumblebee shook his head, forestalling any protest, “It’s alright, Major. Ratchet’s on his way.”

The corpsman looked unhappy, but he nodded in acknowledgement. Bumblebee led Sam towards the doublewide doors on the opposite side of the hangar. The structure was filled with NEST soldiers and Autobots alike. The few bodies that they passed on the way had been covered with sheets. It wasn’t until Sam stepped into the cool morning air that he saw the prisoners. There had to be two dozen of them, kneeling in rows with their hands secured behind their backs. They were surrounded by four soldiers who were standing with their rifles at the ready. Kup watched over them all, ever vigilant. 

Before Sam could search for Novo among the detainees, he felt the Creator bond brighten with Ratchet’s presence. The medic was in his head a moment later, smoothing across his mind.

 _//I’m fine.//_ Sam murmured.

Ratchet didn’t dignify his words with a response. He knew the medic could feel the burning pain suffusing every inch of his body.

They had barely made it another hundred yards before Ratchet’s holoform appeared in front of them. His expression cooled at the sight of Sam picking his away across the poorly maintained airfield on bare feet.

“You little idiot.” He grumbled, but there was no heat in it.

Sam crooked a smile at him. “I missed you too, Ratch.”

The holoform’s eyes raked over Sam from head to toe, taking in the bandage on his arm and the welts on his thighs. His face hardened, but he said nothing. They stood in silence, amidst the soldiers shouting orders and the military vehicles driving across the tarmac. It was a scene of carefully coordinated chaos. It wasn’t long before Sam caught sight of the familiar Search and Rescue vehicle, trundling across the sandy terrain. The Hummer pulled to a stop in front of them, its back doors popping open of their own accord. Sam let himself be maneuvered into the cabin and onto the gurney. He couldn’t suppress the pained sound that he made as his backside came in contact with the mattress.

The doors snapped shut behind them, blocking the compound from view.

Ratchet and Bumblebee helped him out of the flak jacket, dropping the armor onto the floor. The CMO guided him to lie on his stomach, before surveying the welts across his shoulders and thighs. After a moment, his gaze flicked up to Sam’s face.

“I’ll need to treat those.” He said gruffly.

Sam understood what he was asking. He closed his eyes, sighing softly. “Yeah, okay.”

Ratchet’s mental presence was clinical and reserved as he helped Sam shimmy out of his boxers. For his part, Sam was too exhausted and in too much pain to dreg up the embarrassment that he might otherwise have felt. As Ratchet cleaned and disinfected the welts, Bumblebee stroked his fingers through Sam’s hair. His bonded hadn’t stopped touching him since he had first laid hands on him down in the tunnels.

When Ratchet was finished, he applied a topical anesthetic to Sam’s backside, thighs, and shoulders. Then, the medic busied himself preparing an intravenous drip. He talked to Sam the entire time that he worked.

“I’m starting you on broad spectrum antibiotics.” He said, “I doubt the water was sanitary.”

Sam’s lips curved up in a faint smile. “Probably not.”

“With any luck, you won’t come down with an infection or pneumonia.” Ratchet said tersely. He swabbed at Sam’s skin, inserting the needle into the vein on the back of his hand.

“I’ll be fine, Ratch.” Sam murmured.

The holoform snorted derisively as he moved to adjust the clamp on the bag of saline.

“If you can go a fortnight without calamity befalling you, perhaps so.” He replied.

All at once, Sam became aware of the guarded, angry quality of Ratchet’s mental presence. He turned his head, glancing up at the holoform.

“Ratch.” He said, softly. The holoform didn’t look at him, so he tried again. “Ratchet, I’m okay.” 

The medic stilled, his hands still holding the bag of saline. Sam reached out, grasping the holoform’s elbow. “It’s okay, Ratch.”

The medic looked down at him, remorse flitting across his face.

“It is not.” He replied gruffly, “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

Ratchet bent to retrieve a blanket from the bench, drawing it over Sam’s prone body. His hands lingered on his shoulders, thumbs smoothing over the pale flesh. Even though the medic didn’t speak aloud, Sam understood what he was trying to say.

They drove the rest of the way to the embassy in mutual silence.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** I apologize in advance for any editorial mistakes in this chapter. I haven't had the time to thoroughly beta-read it. I've been sick in bed for days, and I wanted to get this up ASAP for you guys. Thanks for your patience.

Will watched as Ratchet accelerated across the airfield towards the perimeter. He was followed by Trailbreaker, Hound, and Bumblebee. The Camaro was visibly battered, with dents and gouges marring his pristine yellow paint. Will frowned, tracking their progression until the convoy disappeared into the early morning gloom. He had been surprised when Optimus had assigned Bumblebee to the vanguard. After the Camaro’s freak-out earlier that morning, Will had expected the Autobot leader to put him on stand-down. Instead, Bumblebee had led the ground assault with Ironhide and Sunstreaker. When Will had shared his reservations with Ironhide, the weapon’s specialist had shrugged and replied, “It’s his due.”

Will had asked for clarification, but the already reticent mechanoid had refused to speak any further on the subject. Despite their comradery, Ironhide was still his superior officer, and Will had been forced to accept the strange non-answer.

His thoughts were interrupted by the crackle of his handheld radio. He glanced down, unclipping the radio from his belt and bringing it to his ear.

_“Phoenix is all-clear. ETA to embassy 80 minutes. Over.”_

Will thumbed the push-to-talk button, “Lennox here. Roger that. Over.”

_“Major, your presence is requested at the perimeter. The sweep is about to begin. Over.”_

He glanced down at his wristwatch. It was almost six o’clock in the morning—they were moving ahead of schedule. He raised the radio to his mouth again, “Wilco. Over.”

Will turned on his heel, clipping the radio to his belt as he strode towards the staging area. The MECH base was a sprawling compound composed of two airplane hangars, the underground bunker, and a dozen structures arranged along the perimeter. They had cleared the airplane hangars and the bunker first, which left a sizable portion of the compound to sweep. Arcee and her team had picked off a few stragglers trying to make a run for it. Silas had not been among them.

As Will stepped into the large tent that had been erected in the staging area, he caught the Quartermaster’s eye. The older man stepped away from the two lieutenants he had been speaking with, acknowledging him with a sharp salute.

“Yes, Major?” 

“I need another flak jacket ASAP. We’re clearing the perimeter.”

The Quartermaster nodded, gesturing towards a short woman in Army Greens standing at a nearby table. She made her way towards the stores arranged at the back of the tent. She returned minutes later with a flak vest adorned with the Marine Corps logo.

 _Close enough_. Will thought, accepting the Kevlar armor. He pulled it on over his head, securing the straps around his ribs. He stopped long enough to sign his name to the supply list, and then he was striding across the airfield towards the buildings in the distance. The sky was just starting to brighten at the horizon, changing from nondescript gray to early-morning yellow. It wouldn’t be long before the sun was up.

He was half-way to the perimeter when Bobby Epps and Robin Williams caught up to him. The Chief Master Sergeants fell into step on either side of him.

“You saw Sam off?” Robin asked, adjusting the utility belt around his waist.

“Yeah, I did.” Will replied. In the distance, Ironhide and Jazz were speaking to one another in their bipedal modes. The Autobots towered over the two dozen soldiers that stood on the dusty pavement, awaiting their orders.

“How’s he doing?” Robin asked.

Will shrugged. “Sam’s a survivor. He’ll be fine.”

Epps made a sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a scoff and a grunt. “He’ll be a whole lot more fine if we find that sonofabitch.”

Ironhide and Jazz turned as they approached, azure optics blazing in the dim morning light. An older man stood at their side, wearing the rank insignia of a United States Army Colonel. Will stopped in front of them, snapping off a crisp salute. The Colonel inclined his head, accepting the gesture of respect.

“Sir, Major Lennox and Master Sergeants Epps and Williams, reporting as ordered.” He said.

“Major. My name is Colonel Chamberlain. I’m in charge of this Op.”

Will resisted the urge to set his jaw. The United States had insisted, in no uncertain terms, that they would lead the assault on the compound. They had allowed the Autobots to take point on Sam’s rescue, but from here on out, the Americans were calling the shots.

He schooled his expression and his tone, before asking, “What’s the situation, sir?”

The Colonel regarded him closely, “We have swept three of the twelve buildings so far. They were empty. We have reason to believe the enemy is entrenched in the building behind us.”

Will leaned to the side, looking past Jazz at the large structure. He had seen the schematics from Skywarp’s scans. It had probably once been an administrative building—two stories high and over 20,000 square feet in area. It was mostly office space, but the floor to ceiling windows would make stealth a challenge.

“I can detect a dozen biomarkers, perhaps more.” Jazz put in, folding his arms over his chassis, “They’re clustered together on the second floor. There are several others in the stairwell.”

Will grimaced. MECH was well trained, well provisioned, and fanatically devoted to their cause—a volatile combination.

“Any sign of IEDs?” Robin asked.

“Bulkhead hasn’t detected anything yet.” Ironhide rumbled.

“Alright.” Will said, scrubbing a hand over his face, “A dozen biomarkers, all assumed hostile, with clear lines of sight and no element of surprise. No biggie—nothing we can’t handle.”

The Colonel’s expression noticeably cooled. “I would remind you that these people are still citizens of the United States, whatever their alleged crimes.”

Will narrowed his eyes at the older man’s tone. Thatcher and Morshower had briefed NEST prior to the assault. It was the American government’s position that all MECH personnel were to stand trial for their crimes. As such, they were to be taken alive unless absolutely necessary. The ‘absolutely necessary’ stipulation was the sticking point. Will was certain they weren’t about to surrender peacefully.

“I realize they’re citizens of the United States, Colonel.” He replied, eventually. “We will do what we can.”

“Good.” Chamberlain replied, “So long as you remember that, Lennox.”

Will’s pulse quickened in familiar anger. After the events of Egypt, Galloway had made good on this threat to court-martial him. The former National Security Advisor had him brought up on charges of dereliction of duty, insubordinate conduct, mutiny, and sedition. It had only been Optimus’ intervention, in the form of denaturalization and permanent transferal to Diego Garcia, that had prevented Will from spending the rest of his life in prison. Although the Autobot leader had eventually convinced the United States to overturn the charges, what was done was done.

As such, he was well aware of the implication in the Colonel’s words: MECH were American citizens. He was not.

“Yeah, well, your citizens beat the shit out of a 21 year old kid. Sir.” Epps said flatly, “If you don’t mind, we’d like to go finish this so we can get the hell out of here.”

The Colonel turned to regard the Master Sergeant, his gaze sharp enough to cut glass. “The Rangers are taking point. NEST will bring up the rear.”

Will felt his face flush red. The Rangers had been his battalion, in the years before Mission City. He was certain their presence at the Op wasn’t a coincidence.

“Yes, sir.” He replied, voice devoid of inflection, “At your command.” 

The administrative building proved to be a straightforward site exploitation. The Rangers entered the building first, following by NEST, as Ironhide and Jazz maintained a perimeter. Although the airy office space made stealth difficult, the direct line of sight was as beneficial as it was a hindrance. Will and Epps took shelter in the lee of a wall as the Rangers popped smoke. They waited, tense and anticipatory, for the command to advance. Then they were moving, Will at point, Robin and Bobby on his flank, as they pushed forward. The Rangers cleared the foyer, and then they began sweeping offices on the first floor. Will could hear the sharp cries of, “Clear! All clear!” as they made their way down the hall. With every step, his frustration and anger at Chamberlain melted away, replaced with the calm focus of active combat.

Ahead of him, the Ranger Captain went down to one knee, signaling the all-stop. Will pulled up short, hugging the wall. The Captain pointed two fingers at his eyes, pointed to his second-in-command, and then waved two fingers towards the open office space. The other man nodded, clapping his companion on the shoulder, and together they made their way into the large room.

When they had taken their positions, the Captain hollered, “This is Captain Jeffers of the 3rd Ranger Battalion. The building is surrounded. Surrender now.” 

There was a beat of silence, and then gunfire erupted from the opposite end of the room. The Captain waited until the gunfire stopped, before making eye contact with his second-in-command. He gave a terse nod, and the man jogged to the next row of cubicles, staying low.

“This is your last chance to surrender peacefully.” The Captain yelled, “We have been authorized to use lethal force, if necessary.”

Beside him, Epps muttered, “That’s a hell of a caveat.”

His words were drowned out in the roar of automatic gunfire. Will fingered his assault rifle, eyes narrowed in concentration. He could see the muzzle flash in the dark hallway on the opposite side of the room. Their assailant was taking shelter near the stairwell. The Captain evidentially came to the same conclusion, for he signaled to his second-in-command and pointed him in that direction. Will waited. A moment, later, there was the sharp rapport of gunfire. He heard a strangled scream, and then it was quiet.

“Clear!” The second-in-command called out.

The Captain straightened to his full height, making his way across the office space. Will followed on his heels, assault rifle held in a ready position. He rounded a row of cubicles and then pulled up short. There, lying on the floor and bleeding heavily from a gunshot wound in his thigh and lower abdomen, was Lieutenant Novo. The olive-skinned man was sweating heavily, his face twisted with agony. The second-in-command was kneeling at his side, applying pressure to his abdomen.

Will strode forward, shouldering people aside. He crouched down and grabbed the younger man by the collar of his flak jacket.

“Where’s Silas?” He growled, over the objections of the second-in-command.

Novo’s eyes were glassy with pain, but there was recognition lurking in their depths. “He’s gone.”

Will shook him sharply, eliciting a cry from the wounded man. “Listen to me, you sack of shit. We’re finding Silas one way or the other. Tell me where he is.”

The second-in-command pried Will’s fingers off Novo’s vest, snapping, “ _Stand down_ , Major _._ He’s bleeding out.”

Will let go without complaint, straightening to his full height. Epps caught him by the elbow, pulling him aside to make room for the combat medic. As the corpsman knelt by his side and unzipped her kitbag, Novo met his gaze. 

“Sam… did he make it?” He rasped, breathlessly.

“Shut your goddamn mouth.” Williams snapped.

Novo closed his eyes, his head falling back against the floor. “I never meant… for him to get caught up in this.”

Will’s pulse quickened in anger, as something spiteful possessed him to growl, “I guess you didn’t hear, then. Silas killed him.”

The former lieutenant opened his eyes with obvious effort. There was grief and remorse and resignation written all over his face. “I wasn’t… informed.”

Will could hear the note of vulnerability in the younger man’s tone. Sensing an opportunity, he crouched down, pinning Novo with a cold look. “Silas drowned him in a pig trough. You didn’t mean for Sam to get caught up in this? You can tell that to his parents at the court-martial… if you live that long.”

Novo’s breath left him in a shaky exhale as he closed his eyes again. He laid so still for so long that Will thought he might have passed out. It wasn’t until he stood up that the former lieutenant opened his eyes, finding Will’s own.

“I don’t know where Silas is.” He rasped, with great effort, “He went radio-silent when the perimeter was breached.”

“If you don’t know where he is, then do you know where he could be?” Epps asked.

The combat medic glanced up at the Ranger Captain, her gloved hands covered in blood past her wrists. “He needs surgery if he’s going to survive.”

The Ranger glanced from the medic to Lennox to Novo, his face going hard. “Answer the question, soldier.”

Novo muttered something in Spanish. A prayer, perhaps, judging by the cadence.

The combat medic pinned the Captain with a sharp look. “He’s going to die if we don’t move him. Now.” 

“The warehouse.” Novo rasped at last, drawing their collective attention, “The one by the westernmost airplane hangar.”

Will felt sinking disappointment at his words. The Rangers had already swept the warehouse and turned up nothing. He opened his mouth to say as much, when Novo shook his head slightly. “There’s a… sub-basement. Not many had the access code. I don’t know it. Silas spent hours down there.”

He turned, exchanging a look with Epps. The Master Sergeant shrugged his shoulders. “It’s worth a shot.”

Will glanced at the Ranger Captain, “What do you think?”

The older man frowned, his brow furrowed in thought. Eventually, he came to a decision. “Go. Take Droyd and Ettlinger. It might be a dead-end, but you should check it out. We’ll stay and clear the rest of the building.”

Will nodded sharply, as two men separated themselves from the others. One was dark-skinned and broad-shouldered, the other was tall and thin, with a face full of freckles. They introduced themselves as Droyd and Ettlinger respectively. Will nodded to them both, before striding back across the office space. The sound of Novo’s labored breathing followed him all the way to the hall. When he stepped into the early morning sunshine, it was to the sight of Ironhide and Chamberlain standing on the dusty tarmac. The Colonel narrowed his eyes as they approached.

“Gentlemen, what’s the situation?” He demanded.

“We’ve secured a prisoner, former lieutenant Luis Novo.” Will said, and he didn’t miss the way that Ironhide’s plating flared aggressively, “He says that Silas might be holed up in the warehouse.”

The older man’s mouth thinned with displeasure. “My team already cleared the warehouse.”

“Novo said there’s a sub-basement.” Will explained, “Captain Jeffers ordered us to investigate.”

The Colonel’s frown deepened. “It’s a waste of time. We were thorough in our sweep.”

Will frowned in return. “It’s a good lead, sir. Novo was already in custody and the intel is easily verifiable. He gains nothing from lying about it.” 

“It’s only a good lead if I say it’s a good lead, Major.” Chamberlain replied coldly, “Go back inside and finish sweeping the building.”

Will narrowed his eyes, fully prepared to earn himself that insubordination charge, when Ironhide stepped forward. “Belay that order, Lennox.”

The Colonel turned to look up at him, his face flushing an ugly maroon at the interference.

“You do not have jurisdiction here.” Chamberlain ground out, “I’m the CO and this is my Op.”

“Perhaps so.” Ironhide replied, “But I’m Lennox’s commanding officer, and we’re following up on his lead.”

The older man bristled at the casual dismissal, “Optimus Prime has signed an agreement of cooperation—“

“Sorry, Colonel.” Jazz interrupted as he approached, “Prime’s commanded us to investigate the warehouse.”

The second-in-command brought two fingers to his helm in a haphazard salute, and transformed without another word. As soon as the last panel slid into place, he popped open his door in an obvious invitation. Williams stepped forward, climbing into the Pontiac Solstice as Ironhide initiated his transformation sequence.

“Who’s going to maintain the perimeter here?” Chamberlain demanded.

“It’s your Op, sir.” Lennox replied respectfully, “I guess you’ll have to figure that out.”

He ducked into Ironhide’s cab before the Colonel could reply. He double-checked the safety on his rifle, resting it against the door as Epps climbed into the passenger seat. Ironhide and Jazz accelerated across the tarmac towards the large, run-down building on the opposite side of the compound. The Colonel stood in their wake, speaking into a handheld radio with an apoplectic expression on his face.

“He’s not going to let that one go.” Will predicted, mildly.

“The thought does not strain my processors.” Ironhide replied.

Will huffed a laugh at his dry tone. Through the windshield, he could see that Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, and Kup were already waiting in front of the warehouse. The large building was made of sheet metal and steel beams, with a corrugated polycarbonate roof. Its wide double-doors stood open, with one hanging at an angle by its hinges. The few windows that Will could see from his angle were broken or missing. The combined effect gave the building a run-down, derelict appearance.

They pulled to a stop next to Kup. The Elite Guard was sitting in his alt mode, his engine audible even inside Ironhide’s cabin. Will glanced over at Epps.

“Ready?”

The Master Sergeant grinned at him. “Let’s go catch some bad guys.”

* * *

Sam fell asleep sometime after they crossed the county line. His exhaustion, combined with the painkillers and the warmth of Ratchet’s cabin, lulled him into a light doze. Bumblebee roused him sometime later, carding his fingers through Sam’s hair until he was fully awake. He blinked open his eyes, turning his head to look up at the holoform. Bumblebee was crouched beside the gurney, his expression soft.

“We’re here. Can you sit up?”

Sam grimaced, but he pushed into a sitting position all the same. He couldn’t prevent the groan of pain as every muscle in his body protested the movement. Bumblebee picked up the blanket that had pooled around Sam’s hips, drawing it across his shoulders. The holoform helped him to his feet, and together, they climbed out of the cabin. As soon as they were clear, Ratchet transformed into his bipedal mode. The medic crouched down, gathering Sam into his servos and bringing him to his chest. He curled one palm against Sam’s back, steadying him as he crossed the space towards the berths. A moment later, he set Sam down on the hospital bed, as gingerly as one might place a teacup on a saucer.

“I’m going to see to those lacerations, and then we can get you cleaned up.” Ratchet informed him.

Sam nodded faintly, clasping the edges of the blanket together with one hand. Ratchet’s holoform materialized at his side, lifting the blanket over Sam’s right shoulder as he detached the IV from the cannula taped to the back of his hand. By the time that he was finished, Ratchet’s bipedal mode had returned, carrying a familiar-looking tray filled with medical supplies. Sam flinched as he placed the tray on the overbed table, causing the items to rattle against the metal. The medic glanced at him, his gaze pointed and perceptive.

“Are you alright?” He asked gruffly.

Sam’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

Ratchet held his gaze for a moment longer. “Let me know if that changes.”

When Sam nodded, the holoform unwrapped the gauze that bound his arm. The first few layers came away clean, but then the cotton became stained with blood and antiseptic. Sam grimaced as the last of the thin material was removed. His arm was red and inflamed from his shoulder to his elbow. The incisions had stopped bleeding, but they were hot and throbbing in time with his pulse. Ratchet made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat as he reached towards the tray.

“I’m going to clean these first. There’s evidence of malignant bacteria growth, so I’ll be using a strong disinfectant.” Ratchet explained, gesturing to items on the tray one at a time, “After I’ve finished, I’ll seal the wounds with surgical adhesive and re-wrap your arm. The procedure shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes.”

Sam stared at the items on the tray, before forcing himself to meet Ratchet’s gaze. “Yeah, okay. Sounds good.”

Ratchet’s expression softened minutely. “I’ll talk you through it.”

Bumblebee carefully disentangled the blanket from Sam’s numb fingers. The scout guided him to lie against the mattress, before draping the blanket over him. Sam turned, smiling faintly at his bonded. It was a wan expression, watery and thin, but Bumblebee smiled back without reservation. He curled both servos over the bedrail, leaning forward until he was close enough to touch. Sam reached up with his good arm, smoothing his hand over the scout’s yellow faceplates.

“Thanks Bee.” He murmured.

Bumblebee _chirruped_ at him as Ratchet readied his supplies.

“I’m going to begin disinfecting the incisions.” The medic said, an apology in his voice, “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

Sam jumped at the feeling of cold wetness swabbing across his arm. He tried to turn his head, but Bumblebee stopped him with a single digit against the side of his face. The scout applied gentle pressure until Sam was looking at him again.

“I thought we could go on a trip together.” Bumblebee said, “Once this is all over.”

His words took Sam completely by surprise. He opened his mouth to reply, when the sudden burn of antiseptic in a fresh wound made him gasp. Ratchet murmured an apology, but his hands were perfectly steady as he worked.

“Maybe we could visit your grandmother.” Bumblebee continued, “Just the two of us.”

Sam blinked open his watering eyes to look up at the scout. Bee was gazing down at him with a tender expression on his face. His optics were so bright that they were almost white. 

“Yeah?” He asked, voice rough with pain and lack of sleep, “That’d be nice. I’d like you to meet her.”

Bumblebee whistled at him, a high-pitched, chirpy sound that Sam had come to interpret as an affirmation. “Tell me about her.”

Sam’s arm was throbbing now, and he could feel every single incision. He took a deep breath through his nose, releasing it out of his mouth, before he fixed the scout with a tremulous smile. “She’s great. She used to be one of the top lawyers in the state. She retired early to take care of my grandfather when he got sick.”

Bumblebee’s expression visibly softened. “She sounds like a formidable woman.”

Sam laughed weakly. “Oh yeah, definitely. She’s tiny, maybe five-foot-five and a hundred pounds, but she’s a force to be reckoned with.”

Ratchet placed the wet gauze in the shallow basin on the overbed tray. He picked up a small tube and uncapped it with a twist of his fingers. “I’m going to seal your wounds with surgical adhesive. It shouldn’t hurt.”

Sam could feel the holoform’s fingers against his skin, gentle but firm. He swallowed and turned his head back towards Bumblebee. “She lives in this little house right on the coast. I used to love it there as a kid.”

“I look forward to seeing it.” Bumblebee replied.

“You’ll love it too.” Sam rasped.

“That’s enough chatter.” Ratchet cut in briskly. 

Sam closed his eyes. His throat was burning from the effort of speaking, and he didn’t object to Ratchet’s intervention. He heard Bumblebee shift forward, and then he was drawing a blunt digit down Sam’s chest. It was a feather-light caress, both tender and affectionate. Sam rested a hand against the scout’s servo in appreciation.

“Alright, that should do it.” Ratchet muttered, dropping the adhesive back onto the tray with a clatter. “I’ll wrap your arm and then we can get you cleaned up.”

Sam nodded without opening his eyes. He listened as Ratchet’s holoform moved items around the tray, and then his fingers were pressing into Sam’s skin as he wound the gauze around his bicep. The medic adjusted the thin material was he worked, occasionally asking Sam how it felt (“Too tight?” and “Is that comfortable?”), before he affixed the ends with a number of small fasteners. Sam glanced over in time to see Ratchet surveying his work with a critical eye. Eventually, the medic nodded to himself and put the rest of the gauze on the tray, before pushing the overbed table aside.

“Let’s get you up.” He said gruffly, carefully sliding an arm beneath Sam’s back. Bumblebee’s holoform was suddenly at his side, grasping him by the hand and elbow of his good arm. Together, they helped Sam into a sitting position. Ratchet’s holoform lowered the bedrail, and extended a hand towards him. Sam clasped it, swinging his legs over the mattress. He took a deep breath, bracing himself, and climbed to his feet. The change in position sent agony across his backside and thighs, and he choked on a whimper. Bumblebee wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, supporting his weight as Ratchet extended a servo towards him. The two holoforms helped Sam climb onto the proffered palm. It wasn’t until Ratchet turned around that Sam saw Hoist standing at the opposite side of the alcove. The physician smiled at him, gesturing towards the berth in front of him.

“It’s all ready for you.” He rumbled.

Sam’s brow furrowed in confusion. There was a large crate-like object resting on the platform. It looked like an energon container—rectangular in shape, opaque gray, and roughly the dimensions of an inflatable pool. It wasn’t until Ratchet approached the berth that Sam saw the container was steaming in the cool hangar air. His insides seized with anxiety as Ratchet set him in front of the makeshift tub. He clutched the blanket more tightly around his shoulders, staring down at the cloudy water.

“It’s okay, Sam.” Bumblebee murmured.

“I’m fine.” He replied automatically.

“I’ll be right here with you.” Bumblebee said, hands settling on Sam’s shoulders. “In and out.”

Sam swallowed against the bile that burned the back of his throat. He was filthy, covered in blood and mud and grime, but he couldn’t force himself to step into the tub. The three Autobots glanced at one another, their gazes heavy and meaningful. After a moment, Ratchet and Hoist stepped away. The two medical builds walked across the narrow alcove to stand at the workbench against the opposite wall. It was clear that they were trying to give him the illusion of privacy.

Bumblebee’s holoform squeezed his elbow reassuringly. “Come on. I’ll help you.”

Sam didn’t protest as Bumblebee drew the blanket away. The holoform folded it neatly, hanging it over the edge of the tub. Then he took Sam’s hand and stepped into the knee-high water. Sam stared at the ripples as they spread across the surface.

 _I’m fine_. He repeated to himself, like a mantra, _This is fine._

Bumblebee waited without complaint as Sam gathered up his nerves. Eventually, he exhaled a shaky sigh and climbed into the make-shift tub. The water was pleasantly warm against his skin, a welcome contrast to the hangar air. Bumblebee murmured encouragement as he guided Sam to sit with his back against the side of the container. To his immense relief, the water only came up to his armpits.

“There you go.” Bumblebee said, kneeling beside him, “How does that feel?”

“It’s… alright.” Sam conceded slowly.

And it was, he realized. The warmth was soothing, soaking into his abused body like a balm. Sam ran his hand through the water, watching eddies play across the surface. The welts across his ass and thighs were beginning to tingle, a strange but not unpleasant sensation.

Sam glanced over at the holoform. “Epsom salts?”

Bumblebee nodded, shifting to sit a short distance away. He gathered up one of Sam’s feet, setting it in his lap. “Epsom salts and oatmeal. The literature was specific.”

Sam’s lips quirked up again. “The last time I had an oatmeal bath was when I had the chickenpox.”

Bumblebee smiled, working his thumbs into the arch of Sam’s foot, “The principle is the same. It’s moisturizing and relieves inflammation.”

Sam closed his eyes, letting his head rest against the edge of the container. Bumblebee continued rubbing his foot, working the arch and heel with clinical precision.

“You don’t need to do that.” Sam murmured.

Bumblebee hushed him softly, holding his heel in one hand and bending his toes with the other. Too tired to object any further, Sam let him. The holoform massaged one foot and then the other, as Sam drifted comfortably. His touch was firm and sure, soothing away any tension that he found. When he was finished, Bumblebee retrieved a cloth and began drawing it over Sam’s legs. He slanted open his eyes, watching as the holoform cleaned away the worst of the muck. The water changed color as he worked, darkening from cloudy white to soot-grey. Eventually, Bumblebee encouraged Sam to lean forward. The scout drew the cloth across his shoulders and down his back. His mental presence was carefully controlled, but Sam could feel the flashes of _anger_ and _concern_ as the full extent of his injuries was revealed.

Sam didn’t say anything. Bumblebee didn’t say anything either. He closed his eyes, letting his shoulders curl forward as the holoform bathed him. He was distantly aware of the fact that, in any other circumstance, he would have been embarrassed by the gentle treatment. As it was, however, he found himself relaxing into Bumblebee’s touch. The holoform murmured at him approvingly, pressing a chaste kiss against his temple.

When he was finished, Bumblebee settled down beside him. They sat together, shoulder-to-shoulder, as Sam soaked in the warm water. By the time that the water grew tepid, Sam was half-asleep. Bumblebee murmured an apology as he helped Sam to his feet. The scout proceeded to dry him off with a towel that was large enough to be a bed sheet. Ratchet was there then, helping Sam into an open-backed hospital gown and gathering him up in his servos. The medic strode across the alcove and settled him on the hospital bed. Sam watched through half-lidded eyes as his IV was reconnected, and then the blankets were drawn up to his armpits.

“Get some rest.” Ratchet instructed, “I’ll turn down the lights.”

Sam nodded faintly, rolling onto his left side. Other than the low-level burning on his backside, he was warm and comfortable, and it was no time at all before he was nodding off. He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds around him. There was the clang of metal against metal, the hiss of hydraulics, and the rasp of air being cycled through vents. The sounds were, at once, both familiar and alien. The thought was strangely comforting, and it followed him all the way down into his dreams.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** It has been one year since I first published Signature (2019-09-10). I wanted to express my sincere thanks for all of the enthusiasm and support you've shown me throughout this crazy journey. Thank-you especially to those of you who take the time to leave detailed feedback on my work. Your thoughts, suggestions, and questions have vastly improved this series. (You guys know who you are).

Will peered down the rickety-looking stairs into the sub-basement. He could see as far as the bottom step, before the passageway was swallowed in darkness. He glanced up at Ironhide. The weapon’s specialist was staring down at him with a frown tightening his mouthplates.

“What do you think, Hide?”

“I think this should have been simple enough to find.” He replied.

Will grimaced faintly. The trapdoor to the subbasement had been covered with cement, making it difficult to detect against the warehouse floor. Still, Arcee had located it less than twenty seconds after they’d breached the perimeter. It seemed impossible that Chamberlain would have missed it in his sweep. He glanced over his shoulder at the cluster of Marines who stood near the large double doors, before his gaze flicked up to the weapon’s specialist.

“Think we’ve got another mole?” He murmured.

Ironhide rumbled deep in his chassis. The sound made the hairs on Will’s arms up.

“I’ve sent Elita and Chromia to reconnoiter the Rangers.” He replied lowly, “Until you hear otherwise, operate under the assumption that Silas has been warned you’re coming.”

Will nodded, adjusting his rifle as he attached the tactical light to the scope. He flicked it on as soon as it was secured, causing a beam of light to cut through the darkness at the bottom of the stairs. The beam of light was joined by another, and then another, as Epps and Williams followed his lead. Will looked at Bobby, who nodded decisively at him, and then at Robin, who was staring into the darkness. He nudged him with his elbow, causing Robin to glance at him with a grim twist of his lips.

“Any idea what’s down there?”

“I’ll be able to get a better read when we’re through the floor.” Arcee answered. The femme was standing in her root mode, servos on her slender hips, “They plated the sub-basement with lead.”

Will nodded, adjusting his earpiece, before gripping his rifle again. “On your command, Hide.”

The weapon’s specialist inclined his helm. “Be careful.”

Will went first, taking the stairs one at a time. The wood groaned under his weight. He swept the hall with his tactical light, but it was empty. The corridor was perhaps a dozen meters long, ending in a solid metal door. Even from a distance, he could see the lights from the touchpad set in the wall beside it. The ground shook from the sudden impact of Arcee landing behind him. He half-turned, glancing over his shoulder.

“Can you take care of that?” He asked, tipping his head towards the door.

Rather than reply, Arcee stepped around him and made her way down the tunnel. The space was cramped, but the lithe femme had more than enough room. Will heard the creak of stairs behind him as Epps and Williams joined them in the narrow space. Arcee popped the plastic off the touchpad, and two thin cables snaked from her wrist to the electrical panel. A moment later, the door beeped as its electronic lock disengaged. Will raised his rifle as she stepped forward, pulling open the door. The space beyond was dark and empty.

Will pressed forward, step by step. He paused on the threshold, glancing up at Arcee. “Can you detect anything?”

The femme nodded, optics narrowed. “There is one biosignature, approximately one hundred meters ahead. I detect no evidence of incendiary devices.”

Will nodded, stepping into the room. Although Arcee had given it the all-clear, he checked his corners anyway. It was a large space, perhaps the size of the command post. It was empty except for four desks arranged in pairs on either side of the room. He made his way forward, alert for any sign of trouble. It was quiet except for their breathing and the faint sound of Arcee’s internal mechanics. As Will passed the first desk, he noticed that it was covered with a thick layer of dust. It was clear that the space hadn’t been used in a long time.

Arcee ducked into the room after Epps, hunching down as she walked. Her blue optics were narrowed in consideration as she swept the area. There was a door on the opposite wall that led to a dark hallway. Will could see light at the end of the long passage. He walked forward, Bobby and Robin falling into place behind him. Arcee brought up the rear, subspacing her energon crossbow as they walked. Will stopped halfway down the hall, cocking his head. He could hear the distant sound of gunfire and screaming. He half-turned, looking at Arcee. The scout raised her shoulders in a shrug. Whatever it was, it wasn’t an active threat.

Will brought his rifle up, resting the stock firmly against his shoulder. The sounds of battle grew louder as they approached the end of the tunnel. He paused on the threshold, before striding into the room. Epps and Robin flanked him, going left and right respectively. The room was some kind of communications post turned research facility. There were computers arranged along the back wall beneath a large bank of video monitors. The monitors were displaying an assortment of footage that, as far as Will could see, had no logical consistency. The nearest monitors seemed to be traffic camera footage. Another displayed what appeared to be an office—men and women dressed in business attire were working in cubicles and at desks. Another monitor displayed cell phone footage of a young woman talking excitedly into the camera. Another still was a security feed from a convenience store.

However, Will barely registered them. In the center of the wall was a large monitor that was replaying footage from the Mission City attack. He watched as Megatron crash-landed in a busy intersection. He could hear the sound of screaming, of cars braking, horns honking, and in the distance, the loud rapport of gunfire. His mouth firmed into a grim line. Megatron swatted a person aside, as though they were an insect. The businessman’s scream was cut short as he collided with a cement wall. The body fell to the ground, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. Megatron pushed to his feet, transforming as he leapt into the air. The burn from his thrusters incinerated another pedestrian who was cowering nearby.

In front of the wall of monitors, stood Silas. The MECH leader was watching the footage in silence, his hands clasped behind his back.

“It’s over, Bishop.” Will ground out, raising his rifle, “Get on your knees and put your hands behind your head.”

The older man gave no indication that he had heard him. He stared considerately at the monitors in front of him, before glancing over his shoulder in their direction. “Have you seen this before, Major Lennox?”

“I gave you an order.” Will spat, stepping around a large table situated in the center of the room.

“There are over two hundred videos that were recovered from the attack.” Silas replied, turning back towards the monitors. “I’ve watched every one of them.”

Will’s attention was drawn towards one of the monitors by a flash of light. It was the monitor that had been displaying footage from the office space. As he watched, Megatron and Optimus crashed through the windows. Propelled forward by Megatron’s thrusters, they tore through the entire floor. He could see people scattering out of the way, but there were a dozen or more than were crushed beneath their weight. The camera feed cutout a moment later, before starting again on loop.

“ _Get on your knees!_ ” Will bellowed.

Rather than comply, Bishop turned around. He leaned back against the computer desk behind him, folding his arms over his chest. “All of the videos recovered from ground zero were classified as top secret.”

On the monitor above and to his right, a vending machine suddenly transformed into a drone. As Will watched, it charged its arm-mounted canon, and proceeded firing into the crowd. A blonde woman was killed first, the shot blowing a hole clean through her chest cavity, and then it fired on a cab. The vehicle exploded in a shower of sparks and twisted metal.

“I’m not going to tell you again.” Will growled through gritted teeth, “Get on your goddamn knees.”

In his peripheral vision, Arcee suddenly stiffened from helm to pede. She rushed forward, tearing at a control panel with both servos. Bishop watched her impassively, canting his head to the side. “It won’t do any good. What’s done is done.”

Will turned to look at her, “Arcee, what’s going on?”

“He’s streaming them.” She said tightly, “It’s all live.”

Will’s heart sank. He turned back towards Bishop, keeping the older man in his sights. “Epps, Williams, restrain him.”

The two men stepped forward, Epps shouldering his rifle as Williams set his weapon on the table and pulled a ziptie from his belt.

“Please, _please_ give me a reason to kick the shit out of you.” Epps said, grabbing the older man and turning him around.

Bishop didn’t resist as Williams restrained his hands behind his back. When the older man was secured, Will strode over to Arcee where she stood with her servos inside the guts of a large server, “Can you shut it off?”

“I can.” She replied tightly, “But it won’t matter.”

“Now everyone knows what happened.” Bishop said, his voice pitched to carry, “Now everyone knows just how dangerous they are.”

“The Fallen almost blew up the sun, dipshit.” Epps bit back, “I think it’s pretty clear how dangerous the Decepticons can be.”

“Decepticons, Autobots, they both killed people in Mission City.” Silas said, tipping his head towards the monitors, “Now people will know the truth, and both Optimus Prime and President Davis will be held accountable for their actions.”

Will stared at the monitors with sinking dismay. The videos were graphically violent, and although they ranged in quality, it was impossible to mistake the Autobots on screen. Their distinctive colors made them easy to identify. He swallowed against the bile in his throat at the footage of Ironhide and Ratchet fighting Starscream. Although the battle was fast-paced, it was clear they were in the middle of a busy intersection. Starscream knocked Ironhide’s arm aside as the weapon’s specialist released a canon blast. The shot went wide, exploding into a nearby building.

Suddenly, the monitors went black. Arcee withdrew her servos from the circuit board, before glancing in Will’s direction.

“The feed was live for ten minutes, perhaps longer.”

Will’s face twisted in a grimace. The MECH leader must have initiated the livestream when they breached the sub-basement.

“There’s nothing we can do about it now.” Will said, shouldering his rifle, “Let’s get him topside. The brass can sort it out later.”

Epps stepped up to the MECH leader, pinning him with a hard look. “I’m going to pat you down. Is there anything on your person that I should know about before I do?”

Bishop’s lips twitched with apparent good humor. “If I had intended to resist, I wouldn’t have let you waltz through my front door.”

Bobby began patting the older man down with quick, efficient movements. When he finished, he straightened up, grabbing Bishop by the arm and steering him forward. Will took point, followed by Epps and Bishop. Williams and Arcee brought up the rear. They made their way down the dark hallway, through the empty room, and into the tunnel. Will could see diffuse sunlight slanting through the trapdoor as they approached.

“Friendlies.” He hollered up the stairs. 

He made his way up the rickety steps into the warehouse. Ironhide and Kup stood on either side of the trapdoor, optics tracking their progression. When Silas finished climbing the stairs, Ironhide’s plating clamped down, and Will could hear the high-pitched whine of his fans trying to disperse the heat of his anger. He gave the weapon’s specialist a sympathetic look, before making his way across the warehouse. He stepped through the open doors into the bright sunshine. Prime, Jazz, and Morshower had assembled to greet them.

Will squinted up at the Autobot leader, asking without preamble, “How bad is it?”

Optimus did not pretend to misunderstand him. “The videos were streamed to the Darknet. It is unclear how many times they were viewed or downloaded before Arcee cut the connection.”

The femme folded her arms over her chassis, anger tightening her faceplates. “I’m sorry, sir. He used a hardline. I didn’t detect the transmission until it was too late.”

As she spoke, Epps and Bishop stepped out of the warehouse. The MECH leader stared up at Optimus, his back straight and his shoulders set. Although his expression was unreadable, his disdain was clear to see.

“Optimus Prime.” He said, lips thinning with ill-concealed contempt, “We meet at last.” 

The Autobot leader narrowed his optics, staring down at the former Colonel in tightly leashed anger. “Major Lennox, remand the prisoner into the custody of the United States.” 

Will was taken aback by the coldness of Prime’s voice. He recovered quickly, turning and nodding at Epps, who took Bishop by the arm and pulled him towards the waiting SUV. The older man chuckled to himself, before calling over his shoulder, “I might be tried in the General Courts-Martial, but you’re going to be tried by the court of public opinion. We’ll see who comes out ahead, Prime.”

“Shut up, asshole.” Epps muttered, putting his hand on the top of Bishop’s head as he guided him into the back of the van. An MP climbed into the backseat on either side of the MECH leader. It was only after the doors slammed shut and the SUV trundled across the tarmac, followed by a convoy of four military vehicles, that Lennox turned to look at Optimus.

“He’s not wrong.” He said, crossing his arms, “Those videos are going to cause problems, both for the United States and for us.”

Optimus rumbled, deep in his chassis, as he watched the convoy drive away. “I will ensure that the videos are contained.”

Morshower scrubbed a hand over his mouth, “It’s not that easy, Prime. Once they’re out there, they’re out there forever.”

The Autobot leader looked down at the General, disapproval tightening his face. “I will not allow the deaths of those civilians to be used for entertainment or shock value. Bishop will not benefit from their deaths.”

Morshower frowned, “What’re you going to do?”

Optimus raised his head, staring solemnly across the airfield. “Whatever I must.”

* * *

The hangar was dark and quiet when Sam finally woke up. He groaned softly, shifting against the mattress. He hurt all over. His backside and thighs were the worst, but his bandaged arm throbbed and his throat was sore. He swallowed, immediately wincing in pain. He couldn’t remember the last time that he felt this awful.

As though summoned by his thoughts, Ratchet stepped towards him. The chartreuse medic wasted no time on pleasantries, initiating a sensor sweep as he disentangled Sam’s arm from the blankets. A syringe-like tube separated from one of his digits, sliding into the bevel taped to the back of Sam’s hand. He watched through half-lidded eyes as a honey-colored liquid filled the coil of tubing before disappearing into the catheter. He could feel the medication working its way up his arm, leaving pleasant warmth in his wake.

“You have a fever.” Ratchet informed him matter-of-factly, “I don’t know whether the bacteria were introduced by the contaminated water or the unsanitary conditions.”

“That explains a lot.” Sam croaked.

“Don’t speak.” Ratchet admonished, “Can you manage something to drink?”

He nodded, pushing half-hearted _agreement_ through their bond. Ratchet regarded him for a moment, before stepping away from the berth. Sam closed his eyes, listening as the medic moved around the alcove that comprised the makeshift medical bay. It wasn’t long before Ratchet returned, brushing against Sam’s mind. He slanted open his eyes to see Ratchet’s holoform standing at his side, holding a coffee mug in his hands. The grizzled medic set the steaming cup on the overbed table, before bending to raise the hospital bed until it was at a 30-degree angle. When he finished, he helped Sam sit back against the mattress.

 _//How long was I asleep?//_ Sam asked, reaching for the mug. A quick glance down revealed it was some kind of tea.

Ratchet watched him closely, as his holoform fixed the tubing of the IV that had gotten kinked while Sam slept.

 _//Six hours.//_ He replied, _//If the tea sits well, I’d like you to have some broth.//_

Sam blew across the steaming liquid before taking a sip. It tasted like peppermint and honey. He glanced up at the mechanoid, smiling wanly. _//Thanks, Ratch.//_

The medic rumbled at him in acknowledgement, but otherwise did not reply. Sam took another sip, letting the warm liquid coat his mouth before swallowing. He curled his hands around the mug, bringing it close to his chest. The ceramic was warm against his palms. As he sipped at the tea, he turned his mind inwards. To his surprise, there were a half-a-dozen spark signatures in the immediate vicinity. He could feel Ratchet readily enough, but there was also Hoist, Ultra Magnus, Trailbreaker, Hound, and Wheeljack. Sam frowned faintly at the sudden realization that Bumblebee was not among them.

“He’s recharging.” Ratchet said, and judging by his unimpressed tone, the scout hadn’t gone willingly, “He’ll be there for another three hours yet.”

Sam turned his attention towards the spark bond. True to Ratchet’s word, the scout’s presence was dim and quiet. It served to ease some of the tension that had gathered in his shoulders at Bumblebee’s absence.

He continued sipping at his tea until it was gone, and then Ratchet took the mug away. The tea and the painkillers left him feeling warm and sleepy. He closed his eyes, drifting pleasantly.

“Don’t fall asleep.” Ratchet said, returning with the aforementioned broth, “You can rest after you’ve eaten something.”

It took a great deal of effort to open his eyes again. There was a take-away container on the overbed table with a spoon resting on its lid. He groaned in protest.

Ratchet frowned down at him. “Are you nauseated?”

“I’m tired.” Sam rasped.

“Don’t speak.” Ratchet retorted, “If you aren’t nauseated, then finish your meal. You can sleep afterwards.”

Sam made an irritated sound, but he reached for the spoon all the same. Eating would be easier than arguing. He pulled the lid off the container to find the same soup that Bumblebee had brought him after his accident. The smell of chicken and spices helped rally Sam’s appetite, and he began eating without further complaint. When he finished, he left the spoon inside the container and laid back against the mattress. The pain of his injuries had faded to a distant annoyance, leaving a peculiar numbness in its wake. It was the easiest thing in the world to let his eyes drift closed, as the world passed by around him. He half-roused sometime later when Hoist added another blanket to his bed, and then again, when Ratchet changed out the bag of fluids hanging on his IV stand. He was barely cognizant each time, staring blearily at the mechanoids before sinking back into the quiet embrace of medicated slumber.

When he came around again, the overhead lights were on their lowest setting. He had rolled onto his side sometime while he slept, exposing his back to the cool hangar air. He fumbled for the blankets, only to have his hand intercepted and the blankets drawn up to his armpits. He raised his head, a feat of Herculean proportions, and glanced over his shoulder. Bumblebee’s holoform lay on the mattress behind him. His bonded smiled softly when they made eye contact, murmuring for him to go back to sleep. Sam nodded faintly, settling back down on the pillow and closing his eyes. He was asleep again less than a minute later.

* * *

Sam’s fever broke sometime over the night. By the following morning, his head was feeling clearer. The hangar was unusually quiet, empty except for Ratchet, Hoist, and Bumblebee. The others were nowhere to be seen.

After he awoke, the CMO changed the bandages on his arm. Sam watched, grimacing at the ten virtually identical incisions that extended from his shoulder to his elbow. The skin was less red, but it was no less tight and uncomfortable. Ratchet made quick work of it—cleaning the incisions and re-wrapping his arm. When he finished, the medic cleaned away the dirty bandages and his supplies. Sam lay back on the mattress, staring sightlessly up at the curved ceiling. Bumblebee’s holoform lay beside him, close but not crowding him.

The hours passed by in silence. Now that he was well rested and clearheaded, Sam’s memories of the last two days crowded to the forefront of his mind. Strangely, it wasn’t the torture or the experimentation or the murder that kept replaying itself on the back of his eyelids. It was other things. The musty smell of the maintenance tunnel. The servers’ red aprons at the reception. The oppressive warmth of his cell. The look in Novo’s eyes when he had held Sam at gunpoint.

Sam rolled onto his good side, tucking a hand beneath his pillow. The memory of Novo’s betrayal spurred other memories that played across his mind like a picture show. Novo sitting on his couch, eating his food. The two of them laughing together over Knock Out burgers. Novo’s shit-eating grin when Bumblebee had won the race in the desert. The warm swell of appreciation that Sam had felt when Novo rescued him from the ballroom—

He swallowed against the sour taste of bile in the back of his throat. With effort, he pushed the memory aside. It didn’t matter. It was all bullshit.

“Sam?” Bumblebee murmured, voice soft with concern.

“I’m fine.” He replied.

Bumblebee’s mental presence brightened with concern. The holoform’s hand settled on his hip, squeezing gently. “Talk to me.”

“I’m fine.” He repeated flatly.

His bonded hesitated, and Sam could feel his uncertainty through their bond. “No, you’re not.”

Sam’s throat closed up with emotion, but he didn’t respond. Bumblebee tried to coax him into a conversation, but eventually, Sam just stopped replying. He stared ahead, twisting his fingers in the bedsheet as he tried to think of nothing. The effort was for naught; the memories came anyway. Novo crashing on his couch after they both had too much to drink. The two of them talking shit about Carter’s love of the Packers. His reaction when Novo had joined him at the embassy—surprise and relief, not to be alone in an unfamiliar place.

That thought made tears prick the corners of his eyes, and he thumbed the moisture away before it could fall. He wasn’t going to cry over Luis fucking Novo.

Bumblebee’s holoform shuffled forward, pressing his forehead between Sam’s shoulder blades. He was distantly aware of his bonded’s concern, his anger, and his _guilt_.

Sam opened his eyes, fisting a hand in the bedclothes.

“It’s not your fault.” He rasped.

And it wasn’t. The fault was his. 

“That’s not true.” Bumblebee replied, earnest and pained. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Polite fiction, Sam knew. He had opened up to Novo. He had pursued the friendship. He had assumed that someone could see him as anything other than a ward of the Autobots. And he had walked straight into a trap, blind and trusting, like a fucking idiot.

Bumblebee’s mental presence shifted forward, enveloping his mind like an embrace.

“Trust isn’t a weakness.” He murmured. 

Sam didn’t know how to reply to that, so he said nothing. Bumblebee lay as close as he could without pressing against him, trying to offer comfort with his presence. They laid together in mutual silence until Ratchet brought him another carton of soup. He placed the container on the overbed table, but Sam made no move to begin eating. His stomach felt like it had been pumped full of cement.

Wisely, Ratchet did not press the issue.

“Eat when you feel up to it.” He said instead, brisk but not unkind.

Sam nodded faintly, his shoulders drawing up to his ears. The medic stared down at him for a moment longer, before making his way back to the workbench. Sam took comfort in the sound of Ratchet working on whatever piece of equipment had piqued his ire this week. The clang of metal on metal was a known quantity. Ratchet’s brusqueness was even more so. He listened in silence, thankful for the reprieve from his thoughts.

On the overbed table, the soup went cold.

* * *

Sam slept off and on throughout the day. Ratchet roused him to change his bandages or to apply ointment to the welts that peppered his back and thighs, but otherwise he was left alone. Hoist brought his evening meal, a spread that was clearly intended to tempt Sam’s appetite, but it was only Bumblebee’s coaxing that got him to eat anything. The process was repeated the following morning. By mid-day, Ratchet declared him well enough to remove the IV. Sam was thankful to be rid of the bothersome equipment.

The monotony was interrupted by the familiar rumble of a Peterbilt engine reverberating down the munitions tunnel. Sam pushed up onto his elbows in time to see Optimus drive into the hangar. The semi-truck rolled to a stop a short distance away, transforming in one fluid motion. Sam struggled into a sitting position with Bumblebee’s help, smiling faintly at the Autobot leader.

“Hey Optimus.”

“Hello Sam.” Optimus replied, stepping towards the berth, “How are you feeling?”

He shrugged, “Good, I guess. You know, all things considered.”

Optimus inclined his helm, “I am relieved to hear it.”

The earnestness in his voice made Sam feel self-conscious. His gaze dropped to his lap, only to notice the vivid welts across his forearms and the bruising around his wrists. He grimaced, folding his arms over his chest as he looked up at the Autobot leader.

“I know that you’re busy, so I assume this isn’t a social call.” He said, discomfiture making him curt when he didn’t intend to be.

Optimus’ features shifted, growing concerned. “I will always have time for you, Sam.”

Sam grimaced again. “I know. I’m sorry.”

The Autobot leader looked at him for a long moment, as though choosing his words. “I regret that I was unable to come sooner. I wanted to be confident in the information I provided you.”

Sam’s insides twisted with anxiety. “Silas?”

Although Optimus’ features did not change, his mental presence cooled by an order of magnitude. “Yes.”

He nodded slowly, bracing himself. “Alright. Tell me. I can take it.”

Optimus’ close regard was a tangible thing. “Former Colonel Leland Bishop was apprehended yesterday morning. The MECH compound was cleared without incident.”

“That’s good.” Sam said slowly, “I mean, that’s good, right?”

The Autobot leader inclined his head in agreement. “Yes, Sam. It’s good.”

Sam frowned, a strange sense of foreboding building in his gut. “Then why did you wait so long to tell me?”

Optimus ex-vented a sigh that was both weary and disappointed. 

“I had hoped to receive some assurances from the United States about their intentions, both with Bishop and with the others we apprehended at the compound.”

Comprehension came fast, and with it, Sam felt a rush of helpless anger. “But they wouldn’t give you any.”

“No, they would not.” Optimus rumbled.

Sam sat up straighter, agitated by the coldness in the Autobot leader’s voice. “What the hell does that mean?”

He was distantly aware of Ratchet’s scrutiny and Bumblebee’s concern, but he ignored them both. He fixed Optimus with an expectant look, “Well?”

“Bishop was clever.” Optimus replied eventually, “Although he was MECH’s public figurehead, he was by no means its most senior member.”

Sam looked from Optimus to Bumblebee, frowning in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

Optimus expression softened perceptibly. He leaned forward until they were almost at eye-level with one another. “I believe they will offer him leniency in exchange for information about MECH.”

Sam blinked, uncomprehendingly. “Leniency? What do you mean, _leniency_?”

The Autobot leader rumbled within his chassis, a sound of deep disquiet. “Bishop knows the names of those in the Congress and the Senate that supported his ideals. President Davis has a vested interest in removing any co-conspirators from positions of power.” He explained, before adding flatly, “It is an election year.” 

Sam sat back, stunned. “So he’s going to get away with it? Just like that?”

Optimus shook his head minutely. “Mearing and Thatcher are compiling a list of charges that have minimum required sentencing. He will not go unpunished.”

All at once, the fight went completely out of him. “He’s going to get a slap on the wrist.” He said, dully, “And in exchange, he’s going to get a soapbox to preach on.” 

“I believe that was Bishop’s intention in surrendering, yes.” Optimus agreed, “But Thatcher has promised that he will do all he can to ensure a closed court-martial.”

Sam swallowed around the lump in his throat. He didn’t know how to process all that Optimus had told him, so he didn’t even try. He twisted a finger in the blankets until it turned purple, and then he slowly unwound it. As the skin returned to normal color, something inside of him hardened to stone. 

“I’m not staying here.” He said suddenly. 

Optimus’ brow ridges drew together in concern. “You are not well enough to return to your apartment.”

Sam raised his eyes, fixing the Autobot leader with a hard look. “No, I mean I’m not staying here. At the embassy.” 

Optimus’ concern grew deeper still and more pronounced. Sam could feel its echoes across the neural-network. “It is unsafe for you to return to the island.”

“I’m not staying here.” He repeated, matter-of-factly. The thought of spending another minute at the embassy made his skin crawl. “I don’t care where I go.”

The Autobot leader’s expression was troubled, but Ratchet intervened before he could reply. The CMO stepped up to the berth, folding his arms over his chest and pinning Sam with a disapproving look. “That is enough. If you’re well enough to argue, then you’re well enough to eat. I will have Hoist bring your meal.”

Sam wasn’t arguing. He was done arguing. He had made up his mind.

Optimus stared down at him, pensive and quiet, as though he were engaged in deep thought. Sam raised his chin, staring back at him unflinchingly. Whatever the Autobot leader saw on his face caused him to sigh, as though in resignation.

“Please do not act rashly.” He rumbled at last, “I will do what I can.”

Sam felt something ugly inside him unclench at the promise in those words. He nodded faintly, and Optimus inclined his helm in return. The Autobot leader stepped back, transforming into his alt mode. Sam watched as he accelerated across the hangar, disappearing into the munitions tunnel. The loud rumble of his engines faded away, leaving silence in its wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** Well guys, we're at the end of this story. The last chapter is a short epilogue that takes the form of four distinct conversations. 
> 
> If you’ve enjoyed yourself so far, please stick around! There’s more to come.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Thank-you so much for joining me on this wild ride. The Signature series was published twelve months ago, and in that time, we have covered three stories (and a few vignettes!) that span 460k words, 43k views, over 1800 kudos, and 1400 comments. I owe everything to my readers, who have guided and supported me the entire way.
> 
> This one's for you guys.

**EPILOGUE**

**I. Ratchet**  


Ratchet turned the hydrospanner over in his servos, frowning down at it. The power cells were almost depleted, but it was the tension adjuster that was causing the malfunction. He adjusted the zoom on his optics, noting the hairline crack in the metal. It would need to be replaced, and unfortunately, they didn’t have the resources to do so. Terran metals were too soft to withstand the friction generated by the device, and there were no other parts to spare. Perhaps Wheeljack could jerry-rig something, but he doubted it.

The medic made a sound of disgust deep in his intakes, tossing the equipment onto the workbench. The war had been long and difficult, but the last few mega-vorns had weighed heavily on his shoulders. They were short on nearly everything—supplies, equipment, reinforcements, fuel. At least they had secured a steady supply of energon. That was one less thing for him to worry about.

His brooding was interrupted by the rumble of engines in the Munitions tunnel. He sent a cursory ping, which came back a moment later with two ident-codes: Jazz and Ultra Magnus. Ratchet grimaced internally. He had been expecting them, or someone else, eventually. He turned, watching as the Pontiac Solstice and the car-carrier trailer drove into the large hangar. They rolled to a stop just outside of the alcove, transforming in a cacophony of shifting metal and moving parts.

Ratchet noticed Jazz’s dorsal panel grinding against his aft plate as he finished his transformation. The medic frowned, annoyed. He had just fixed that. 

The second-in-command strolled into the makeshift medical bay, an easy grin on his faceplates. “Hey, Hatchet. How’s it hanging?”

Ratchet directed a cool look at the saboteur. “I’m working, as you well know. What do you want?”

Jazz propped an elbow strut against the nearest berth, leaning his weight against it. “We need to talk. You know, about the kid.”

Ultra Magnus gave Jazz a disapproving look, before turning to face Ratchet. “Has there been no improvement?”

Ratchet regarded the City Commander, considering his response. It had been four days since Sam’s rescue. His injuries were healing well—the fever had resolved in twelve hours, the welts had gone down shortly thereafter. Even the incisions were showing marked improvement, a testament to the healing factor that Silas had been so keen to exploit.

The concern was no longer his physical condition, but rather his emotional one. Sam was withdrawing into himself, pushing away all of those around him. He had become quiet and taciturn, a jarring deviation from his usual tendency to chatter at length. Ratchet had seen this behavior once before, three years ago. Sam’s slow decline in the aftermath of Egypt had been a sobering lesson in his own impotence.

“No.” He admitted eventually, “But neither is he any worse.”

Ultra Magnus frowned in response. “He still insists on leaving the embassy. I have been unable to deter him.”

Jazz chuckled, folding his arms over his chassis. “Yeah, the kid is stubborn when he wants to be. He’s almost as bad as Prime.”

The City Commander fixed him with a cool look. “Your facetiousness is unhelpful.”

“What would you suggest instead?” Jazz asked dryly. “He won’t talk to me.”

Ratchet felt a twinge of disquiet at the reminder. Sam wasn’t outright avoiding them, but only Bumblebee had been able to draw him out of his shell, and even then, their conversations were stilted and one-sided.

“Perhaps the therapist will help.” Ultra Magnus rumbled.

“He won’t talk to her, either.” Ratchet replied, distractedly. He had suggested that very thing to Sam earlier that morning. The boy had refused, pointblank, and Ratchet had unwisely pressed the issue. The result was a rare but explosive display of Sam’s temper—he was sure they must have heard him shouting in the ground bridge hangar. Sam had stormed off afterwards, courtesy of Bumblebee, and he hadn’t returned since. The scout was keeping him abridged of Sam’s condition, but otherwise Ratchet was leaving well enough alone. Sam’s temper burned like an ignition flare, hot and sharp and short-lived. He would come back after he had cooled off.

“Something must be done.” Ultra Magnus said, pulling Ratchet back to himself, “It is beginning to cause discontent.”

Ratchet grimaced. The reaction to Sam’s abuse, as well as the subsequent fallout after Bishop’s arrest, had been varied. While most mechanoids had expressed some degree of anger or concern, others were far more vocal about their outrage. Bulkhead and Sunstreaker had been particularly offended by the disrespect afforded by the United States. Ultra Magnus had had to reassign the wrecker to Diego Garcia, lest Sam or another human overhear the vitriol that he was spitting to anyone who would listen. 

“Bumblebee will talk to him.” Ratchet said at last, “He has been successful in persuading Sam to speak with Karen in the past.”

Ultra Magnus frowned faintly, as though in contemplation. He turned to look at Jazz. “Has Prime decided on a course of action?”

The second-in-command shook his helm. “No, not yet.”

“Neither option is particularly appealing.” Ratchet added gruffly.

Sam’s insistence on leaving the embassy was a logistics nightmare. Diego Garcia was better fortified and easier to defend, but the likelihood of a Decepticon attack was significant—and that said nothing of Megatron’s presence, which was prohibitive in and of itself. The embassy was less likely to be the target of an attack by Shockwave, but bitter experience had taught them the untrustworthiness of their supposed allies. They could prohibit the Americans from entering the property—it was considered Cybertronian soil, after all—but the point was moot if Sam refused to stay there.

As though following his train of thought, Ultra Magnus canted his helm. “Prime could order him to remain at the embassy. Sam is a ward of Cybertron, by their laws and our own.”

Jazz folded his arms over his chassis, giving the City Commander a skeptical look. “Do you really think that giving him an ultimatum is the smart move, here?”

“It is not ideal, no, but needs will out.” Ultra Magnus replied evenly.

“And if he refuses?” Jazz returned.

The City Commander looked taken aback by the question. “He is compelled to obey Prime’s orders.”

Jazz stared at him before asking, with genuine curiosity, “Have you ever met Sam before? Or any other human, for that matter?”

Ultra Magnus stiffened in affront. “He is young and headstrong, but he can be made to see reason.”

“Sam’s a lot of things, but right now, _reasonable_ isn’t one of them.”

Ultra Magnus frowned deeply. “He will do as Prime bids him.”

Jazz rolled his optics, an impressively human mannerism by any metric. “And how do you think that’ll go?” He asked, all dry sarcasm, “The Boss commands him to stay, Sam refuses, and … what? We throw him in the brig? ‘Cause, I gotta tell you Ultra Magnus, if you think there’s discord in the ranks now, Sam’s open rebellion won’t help matters.”

The City Commander frowned again. “He adjusted to his transferal to Diego Garcia. In time, he will do the same for the embassy.”

“Where else was he going to go? _The Pacific_?” Jazz asked mildly, “In case it’s escaped your notice, Jasper isn’t an island. Nothing’s stopping him from leaving.”

The saboteur’s words pulled Ratchet up short. Unbidden, the memory of Sam’s rescue rose up in his processors. The boy had paled when Ratchet began tending his wounds, and Bumblebee had distracted him with ideas of travel. Sam had settled, his blood pressure and heart rate lowering closer to baseline normal as they talked. At the time, Ratchet had filed it away as another example of the mammalian relaxation response, but perhaps there was more to it than that.

He reset his vocoder, before glancing at the two mechanoids. “We could send him away.”

Ultra Magnus and Jazz stopped arguing long enough to look at him.

“Are your audials malfunctioning?” Jazz asked dryly, “There’s nowhere to send him.”

Ratchet narrowed his optics in warning—he had a hydrospanner with Jazz’s name on it, and no qualms about using it. “Not permanently, no, but other accommodations could be made.”

Jazz canted his helm, staring at Ratchet with the same uncanny scrutiny that Prowl was renowned for. “What’re you thinking, Doc?”

Ratchet made a considerate sound, deep inside his intakes. “Sam has strong familial bonds to his progenitors. They contributed greatly to his recovery in the weeks following his rescue from the _Nemesis.”_

“Ronald and Judith Witwicky are living in Tucson, Arizona.” Ultra Magnus rumbled, “The area is densely populated. We could not guarantee Sam’s safety, or the safety of the local populace.”

Ratchet rolled his pauldrons in a shrug. “He has a maternal grandmother in California, two paternal grandparents in Chicago, and extended relatives in Boston. I believe a change of scenery would do him good.”

Jazz made a considerate sound. “It would give us some time, anyway. To figure something out.”

“It would require a great deal of coordination.” Ultra Magnus replied, but his tone was thoughtful rather than dismissive, “The United States would need to be involved.”

Jazz turned to look at the City Commander, snorting in derision. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“It is unavoidable, loath though I am to admit it.” Ultra Magnus rumbled, “Sam may have diplomatic immunity, but that does not allow him, or us, to travel with impunity inside their borders.”

Jazz grimaced in distaste. “I guess Mearing or Thatcher could arrange it. They seem to be the least duplicitous of the bunch.” He glanced at Ratchet, “You realize this’ll only be a temporary solution? We could give him a week, perhaps more, but every additional day increases the risk of an attack.”

Ratchet ex-vented a sigh, suddenly feeling every klik of his old age, “It will have to do.”

Jazz pushed away from the berth, shrugging expressively. “Alright, I’ll talk to the Boss.”

  


* * *

  


**II. Optimus Prime**

Optimus entered the command center, striding to the boat-shaped table in the middle of the room. Prowl stood at the communications terminal, servos flying across the control pad. He glanced up at Optimus approached, inclining his helm in greeting.

“Prime.”

“Prowl.” He replied in kind, “Is the call ready?”

“Yes.” Prowl replied, stepping aside so that Optimus could take his place, “President Davis is waiting.”

The command center was empty except for Dave Carter, who sat at the table on the mezzanine. The personal assistant was at eye-level with the large view screen that hung on the opposite wall. The monitor was dark except for the Autobot emblem that took up the center of the screen. There was a small green light blinking in the top left-hand corner, indicating that the line was live.

Optimus straightened his back, letting the green light blink for a moment longer, and then he activated the connection. Immediately, the visage of President Adam Davis filled the screen. The older man was sitting at his desk in the Oval Office. The rose garden was visible through the windows behind him.

“Prime, thank-you for taking my call.” Davis began.

“President Davis.” Optimus replied, coolly, “My third-in-command indicated that your reason for calling was urgent.”

Davis inclined his head, clasping his hands on the desk in front of him. “It is. I want to formally express my condolences, on behalf of the United States, for the incident involving your Ambassador. I hope these terrible events will not impact the positive relationship between our two peoples.”

Anger quickened Optimus’ fuel pump, and he narrowed his optics fractionally in response.

“The incident involving my Ambassador.” He repeatedly, flatly, “I am afraid you will need to be more specific.”

A fissure of confusion flitted across President Davis’ face. “His kidnapping, of course.”

“His kidnapping.” Optimus replied evenly, “Does your apology extend also to his torture and attempted murder?”

The President visibly grimaced. “Yes, it does. Of course it does.”

“Of course.” The Autobot leader echoed coldly, “And it only took you five days.”

Davis, who had previously appeared flustered, sat up straighter in his chair. “We have issued a press release, condemning the attack in the strongest possible terms. I will also be speaking to the White House Press this evening. I would like to reaffirm our mutual friendship for both the American people and the world.”

Optimus rumbled, low in his chassis. “Your words are nothing but baseless pleasantry, Mr. President. Not without action.”

He did not need to elaborate. He had made his expectations perfectly clear to Thatcher and Mearing, who would have reported it to their Commander-in-Chief. He could tell by the grim twist of Davis’ mouth that the man knew exactly what Optimus was implying.

“Lieutenant Novo and the other apprehended members of MECH are being brought up on state and federal charges.” The President said, “You have my word that they will experience the full brunt of the American judicial system.”

Optimus narrowed his optics, allowing his displeasure to leak into his voice. “And Bishop?”

The President’s expression did something complicated—a twist of his lips, a tightness in his brow—but he replied readily enough. “Former Colonel Leland Bishop is being brought up on charges of kidnapping, conspiracy to commit murder, attempted murder, trespassing, conspiracy against the United States, and advocating to overthrow the government.”

Optimus felt a twist of black anger at the pronouncement. He stared at the view screen, waiting in silence. The moment stretched on, taunt, until Davis coughed into his fist.

“There will be some negotiations, between Bishop’s lawyers and the prosecutor, of course, but we are confident—“

“And what of the charge for murder?” Optimus asked tightly. 

Davis frowned, clearly taken aback by the question. “Witwicky was drowned, but he survived. You can’t—“

“I was referring to the mechanoid.” Optimus said, interrupting him again.

Comprehension broke over Davis’ face. “Oh, of course. The mechanoid.” He cleared his throat, uncomfortably, “I was led to understand that it wasn’t one of yours.”

Optimus stiffened at the insinuation underlying his words. He leaned forward until his visage filled the monitor, optics hard and narrowed. “Breakdown was a mechanoid, regardless of his faction, and he was murdered in cold blood, in accordance with Bishop’s orders.” His voice dropped, until it was a dark rumble, “Tell me of your plans for justice, Mr. President, and I will tell you of our _mutual friendship_.” 

President Davis flushed in response, an ugly maroon spreading across his face like spilled wine. “Now see here, Prime, you can’t strong-arm—“

“Iraq, 2019. Benghazi, 2012. Yemen, 2008. Pakistan, 2006. Kenya and Tanzania, 1998. I can go on.” Optimus said, speaking over the blustering man, “History is rife with examples of attacks on US diplomatic facilities. Each time, the United States has demanded unwavering response from its host governments.” Davis had stopped speaking mid-sentence, and Optimus fixed him with a narrowed stare. “I will take a page from your history books, President Davis, and demand due process for Bishop and his co-conspirators. I will accept nothing less.”

Davis recovered himself, narrowing his eyes in return. “Is that a threat?”

“You may perceive my words however you wish, so long as you act on them.” Optimus replied. “I will watch your press release with great interest.”

The Autobot leader disconnected the call before the President could reply. He stood for a long moment, staring sightlessly at the video monitor, when he heard a hesitant laugh behind him. He half-turned, angling his helm to look at Dave who had come to stand by the railing of the mezzanine.

“Well, I’d say that our popularity in Washington just tanked.” He said good-naturedly.

Optimus inclined his helm, but before he could reply, a _ping_ flashed across his primary visual display. The blinking notification had neither ident-codes nor signifiers, rending it virtually anonymous. Optimus frowned deeply. It was standard procedure to include caste, faction, and designation tags on all communications frequencies, except for Spec Ops, and that narrowed down the list of potential senders significantly. He _pinged_ Jazz a status query, receiving his second-in-command’s reply an astrosecond later.

The Autobot leader glanced at his personal assistant. “Forgive me, Dave. A matter has arisen that requires my attention.”

The personal aid nodded in understanding, before gathering up his things. Optimus turned to regard Prowl, who was watching him closely. The ping continued blinking at him, insistently. The Autobot leader keyed up his defensive protocols, watching the encryption code scroll across the corner of his primary visual display. When his systems-check returned all-clear, he accepted the connection.

At once, an inflectionless voice filled his processors. _//Optimus Prime.//_

Soundwave.

Optimus compiled a data packet, _pinging_ Prowl the pertinent details. The third-in-command nodded once, perfunctorily, before his servos flew across the control pad in front of him.

 _//Soundwave.//_ Optimus pinged in reply, _//I assume you have a reason for this subterfuge?//_

He had spoken with Soundwave in person just five days ago, when he had enlisted the surveillance operative’s assistance in removing the Mission City footage from the Internet. Soundwave had agreed, although he had not stated his price. Optimus had a creeping suspicion that the time had come to settle the debt.

 _//Discretion is prudent.//_ Soundwave replied, his mental voice lacking the flat, metallic edge of his vocoder.

Optimus glanced at Prowl, who was running a thorough systems sweep. The strategist shook his helm without raising his head. _No security breach._

The Autobot leader _pinged_ him an acknowledgement, before asking Soundwave, _//What of the leaked footage?//_

 _//It has been contained.//_ Soundwave replied, direct and to the point.

Optimus did not ask for specifics, as he was certain the surveillance operative would not provide them. Instead, he inclined his helm. _//You have my gratitude.//_

 _//I do not require your gratitude, Prime.//_ Soundwave replied, his ping devoid of any signifiers or emphasis glyphs, _//I require my due.//_

The Autobot leader narrowed his optics. _//You did not state your price.//_

 _//I do so now.//_ Soundwave replied, _//Megatron.//_

Optimus stiffened from helm to pede as his battle protocols tried to come online. He shunted them aside, ruthlessly, before he said, _//Megatron is not a bargaining chip.//_

It took several seconds before the surveillance chief replied. _//You will comply.//_

Optimus tightened his servos into fists. _//Megatron will be tried for his crimes, Soundwave. I will not release him, to you or to any other.//_

 _//I do not require his freedom, only his life.//_ Soundwave replied, before adding, _//You will comply, Optimus Prime. Honor demands it.//_

The Autobot leader’s fans whirred with the effort of dispersing the heat of his anger. _//Do not speak to me of what honor demands. I know it well.//_

 _//Do you?//_ Soundwave asked.

Optimus frowned deeply. He had the distinct impression that he was being maneuvered, and he did not like it. Soundwave was known for his machinations ever since his rise to power in the Senate. He had been ruthlessly manipulative, even then.

 _//Speak plainly, Soundwave.//_ The Autobot leader rumbled in reply, _//I am in no mood for your games.//_

The reply was immediate. _//You will spare Megatron’s life, as I have spared the boy’s.//_

Optimus stilled, his fuel-pump missing a beat. _//The compound?//_

 _//The Nemesis.//_ Soundwave replied.

A moment later, Optimus received a condensed data packet. It was simple binary, too small to contain a virus, but he regarded it with suspicion.

 _//What is this?//_ He demanded.

_//The truth.//_

The Autobot leader scanned the packet, but it returned no alerts of any kind. He _pinged_ it to Prowl for a second opinion, and it took the third-in-command less than a kilk to arrive at the same conclusion. If Soundwave had encrypted the packet with a virus or other malevolent software, it was beyond their ability to detect it.

Frowning, Optimus decompressed the packet. It was a list of memory files, time-stamped to the astrosecond. They were brief, each less than a kilk, but they told him everything.

_Soundwave, shifting through Sam’s mind as Megatron held it open for him. The boy convulsed on the floor, bleeding from his nose. Megatron watched on, predatory and intent._

_Soundwave’s surprise as he realized the young Prime held the knowledge of the Allspark inside his mind. Safe and secure, waiting to be released._

_Sam, staring up at Megatron in narrow-eyed defiance, as he proclaimed his loyalty to Optimus Prime. Megatron’s fields flared with outrage, and Sam collapsed to the floor of the bridge, screaming._

_Soundwave tasking Ravage with the boy’s wellbeing. The cyber cat regarded him, head tipped to the side, as she_ pinged _her acknowledgement._

_Soundwave, burrowed deep inside Sam’s mind during his captivity, silent and observing._

_Soundwave’s disapproval as Megatron brutalized the boy, using both pain and pleasure to punish him._

Optimus stiffened as the memory flashed through his processors in vivid detail. It had been one thing to learn about Sam’s abuse, but it was another thing entirely to experience it for himself.

_Soundwave planting the idea of Sam’s rescue in Deadlock’s mind, nurturing it like a flame._

_Soundwave intercepting Growl’s message to the tactical network, and then ensuring the ground bridge hangar remained unlocked during the rescue._

_Soundwave drawing Thundercracker to him, despite the Seeker’s uncertainty, and guiding him towards the truth—knowing the outcome would spell Megatron’s downfall._

The Autobot leader ex-vented sharply as the last datum ended. The shift in his mood was so profound that it felt like a change in gravity.

 _//Why?//_ He asked softly.

 _//You know why.//_ Soundwave replied.

Of course he did. Sam held the knowledge of the Allspark inside his mind—fragments perhaps, but it was all that was left of a shared history that spanned a billion years. Soundwave was first and foremost a Carrier-class mechanoid. It was hard-coded into his base programming.

Optimus shuttered his optics. _//Sam is not a cassette.//_

Soundwave’s reply was longer to come, but it was no less certain when it did. _//Irrelevant.//_

The Autobot leader did not immediately reply. He reviewed the files for a second time—all but one, which would remain unopened. He would send the packet to Jazz and Prowl for analysis, but he was certain the datum had not been falsified.

 _//I will not release Megatron, but I will spare his life.//_ He pinged at last, adding grimly, _//As honor demands.//_

The surveillance chief sent a terse acknowledgement, and then the comm frequency disappeared. Optimus ex-vented softly, tipping his helm and shuttering his optics. Prowl watched in silence, waiting for him to speak. It took Optimus a long moment before he felt composed enough to do so.

“Assemble the senior officers.” He intoned, glancing sidelong at the strategist, “And inform Ultra Magnus that I must speak with him immediately.”

Prowl inclined his helm. “Ultra Magnus is meeting with Thatcher and Mearing regarding Sam’s travel arrangements. Shall I direct him to reschedule?”

Optimus shook his helm, before turning to look at Dave who was standing halfway down the gantry. The personal assistant was watching him, sharp-eyed and knowing.

“I’m on it.” He said, before Optimus had the chance to speak, “I’ll head over now.”

“Thank-you, Dave.” Optimus replied, solemn and sincere, “Please do whatever is necessary to ensure his safety and privacy during this time.”

“No problem.” Dave replied, already striding down the gantry towards the stairs. Not for the first time, Optimus was grateful for the man’s calm competency.

He turned back towards Prowl, “I will be in my office. Contact me when the senior officers have arrived.”

The strategist inclined his helm in acknowledgement. Optimus nodded his thanks, turning to leave, before pulled up short. He turned back around, fixing his third-in-command with a serious look. “And Prowl?”

The mechanoid glanced up, meeting Prime’s optics.

_//This is an internal matter. Major Lennox will be briefed in due time.//_

Prowl dipped his helm in understanding, before returning to his work. Optimus watched him for a long moment, wondering how his senior officers would inevitably react to what he had to tell them. He allowed himself to dwell on it for only a moment, before turning and walking out of the command center. 

  


* * *

  


**III. Sam**

Sam drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair, staring straight ahead. Karen sat in front of him, her expression soft and concerned. His eyes were glued on the clock that was affixed to the wall over her left shoulder. He just had to suffer through this for another forty minutes, and then he could leave. 

“Sam, please.” Karen tried again, “Talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to say.” He replied.

“There’s nothing to say?” She asked skeptically, “You were kidnapped and tortured, for a second time, and you don’t have anything you want to get off your chest?”

 _Not to you._ Sam thought, but didn’t say. Instead, he lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I’m managing.” 

Karen regarded him for a long moment, concern furrowing her brow. “I don’t think you are.”

Sam resisted the urge to snap at her. Instead, he leaned back in the chair and stared up at the ceiling. The office was smaller than their usual meeting space. He had refused to come unless they met at the far end of logistics, near the exit to the munitions hangar. They were well within Bumblebee’s sensor range, and nowhere near the maintenance tunnel entrance. Still, he felt uncomfortable. Unsafe. Unwelcome.

Eventually, Karen sighed. “If you won’t talk to me, then will you at least listen?”

Sam shrugged dismissively. “I’m all yours for another thirty-seven minutes.”

In his periphery vision, he saw Karen lean forward in her seat. “I think you’re backsliding, Sam. I think that you’re pushing everyone away from you, and I think that you’re hurting.”

Sam’s shoulders were so tight that it was giving him a tension headache. “I’ve been down this road before. I can handle it.”

“No, you haven’t.” Karen replied calmly, “This is nothing like what happened on board the _Nemesis._ ”

He lifted his head and looked her in the eye for the first time since stepping into the office. “I was kidnapped and tortured by a psychopath with delusions of grandeur. That sounds pretty similar to me.”

If Karen was put off by the sarcastic bite in his words, she didn’t show it. “Silas wasn’t an alien dictator. MECH was not an alien army. These were people, and they treated you like an object. We’ve discussed your struggles with feeling _other_ before.”

A muscle jumped in Sam’s jaw, but he shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m used to it by now.”

Karen’s expression softened. “Sam, what Luis did—“

Sam sat up in his chair, cutting her off mid-sentence. “ _Don’t_.”

“Don’t what?” She asked, canting her head to the side.

“Just don’t.” He bit back, “I’m not talking about him. Not now, not ever.”

Karen sighed deeply. “Do you think you can unpack everything that’s happened without confronting his betrayal?”

A rush of hot anger pounded through him. He narrowed his eyes, leaning forward as he ground out, “I’m only going to say this once: my friend, Luis, died in that maintenance tunnel with Ted, and I don’t give a _shit_ about Agent Novo. The next time you mention his name is the last time that I meet with you.”

Karen regarded him for a long moment, her eyes roving over his face. His seriousness must have been plain for her to see, for she tipped her head in acquiescence. “Alright, Sam. I understand. We all have hard limits.”

Unable to maintain eye contact in the face of her soft sincerity, Sam looked away. His eyes skipped over the nondescript office until they settled once again on the clock. The second hand ticked steadily by as Karen watched him watching the time. After several minutes had passed in silence, she leaned forward, wrapping her hands around her knee.

“Do you trust me not to hurt you, Sam?”

Sam flinched away as though she had slapped him. His eyes found hers as his heart began beating erratically inside his chest. “What?”

Karen’s voice was very gentle as she repeated her question. “Do you trust me not to hurt you?”

Her question twisted inside his ribs like the blade of a knife. His eyes fell away from hers, as a hot flush spread across his face. His breath was coming faster now, too fast, and Karen shifted forward in concern.

“You’re okay, Sam.” She said firmly, “Let’s take a slow, deep breath.”

He couldn’t do it. His breath was coming faster still, high pitched and wheezing, making his lungs burn. It was a familiar, hated feeling and it tipped him over into a full-fledged panic attack. His hands flew to his collar, numb fingers tugging desperately at the buttons as he tried to breathe.

Karen was there then, kneeling at his side. She was talking to him, low and soothing, but he couldn’t make sense of the words. He was distantly aware of Bumblebee’s concern and Ratchet’s scrutiny—he reached for them, blindly. Karen guided him down until his head rested between his knees, talking to him the entire while. Eventually, the words niggled through the fog of his panic.

“In through your nose, out through your mouth. Come on, Sam, you can do it.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and struggled to obey.

“That’s it, Sam. Good. You’re doing great.” She said encouragingly, “And again. All the way into your belly.”

He took a shuddering breath, and then another. Karen crouched beside him the entire while, talking him through it. Eventually, the high-pitched rattle of his breathing slowed down and evened out.

“Do you think you could sit up?” She asked softly.

Sam nodded faintly, straightening up and sitting back in the chair. Karen smiled warmly as she stood and crossed the room, retrieving a bottle of water from the desk behind her. She resumed her seat and extended the bottle towards him. Sam accepted it with shaking hands, twisting off the cap and taking a long drink.

“We’ve touched on something important here, Sam.” Karen said. 

Sam drank his water slowly. It was lukewarm, but it washed away the metallic taste of fear in his mouth.

“Trust is a cornerstone of the therapy process.” She continued gently, “I can’t help you if you don’t trust me.”

Sam gripped the bottle until the plastic crumpled beneath his fingers.

“Would you feel more comfortable with another therapist?” She asked, without a hint of judgement or offense in her voice.

Sam shook his head faintly, unable to reply around the lump in his throat.

“Alright.” She said, “Alright, Sam.”

Sam took another drink of water, giving himself time to piece his words together. The bottle was empty by the time he forced himself to look her in the face.

“It’s not you.” He said softly. “It’s everyone.”

There was understanding and compassion reflected in her eyes.

“I know.” She replied, “Can you trust me to work with you, at least? To help you, to the best of my ability?”

He closed his eyes. “I don’t know.”

“That’s alright, Sam.” Karen said gently, “We’ll figure it out together.”

  


* * *

  


**IV. Megatron**  


It was dark and quiet inside his holding cell. The narrow space was situated against the back wall of the hangar, which was empty except for the Elite Guard who stood beside the door. The Autobot watched him in silence, the blue of his optics standing out in the gloom. Megatron returned his stare, a smirk curling the corners of his mouthplates. The grizzled veteran did not react to the provocation, a disappointment. He had enjoyed toying with the Security Director, before the mechanoid had been reassigned.

He was kneeling against the wall, his servos bound behind him by stasis cuffs. The low-level electricity tingled up his forearms. An annoyance, but one that was easily ignored. The stasis cuffs blocked access to all but his base functions, which was a far greater aggravation. He longed to power his fusion canons, to feel the rush of capacitors charging as he blew his way out of this room and through the Autobot ranks. Nothing would bring him greater satisfaction.

He had emerged from stasis over six orns ago. His injuries had been tended, and his weapons and armor had been removed—a fact that had driven him into a rage. It was only then that he learned the stasis cuffs had been modified to subdue him at the first sign of violence. He had been left twitching on the floor of his cell, powerless and seething, until the stun effect wore off. That had been his last act of physical aggression. He knelt in silence as the joors passed, waiting. He had lived for deca-vorns in the mines. This was nothing in comparison.

The monotony was interrupted only by the change of his guard and the arrival of energon, both which happened with predictable regularity. There was no interrogation, no torture, no withholding of rations. It did not surprise him that his captors lacked the fortitude to do so. They were Autobots, after all. Soft-sparked down the last mechanoid.

His thoughts were interrupted as the hangar door slid open with a pneumatic _hiss._ The light from the corridor spilled into the dark room, backlighting the mechanoid in the doorway. It took an astrosecond for his optics to adjust, and when they did, he rumbled low in his chassis. Optimus Prime strode into the room, approaching his cell with a steady, even gait. As he passed the Elite Guard, Prime turned his head and rumbled a dismissal. The grizzled old war build inclined his helm, before making his way out of the room. The door slid shut behind him, enveloping them in darkness.

Megatron did not rise to greet him. It was unnecessary. He and Prime were on even ground.

The Autobot leader stopped a short distance away from the energy barrier that separated them. The electric field was the same azure blue as Prime’s optics—and both snapped with suppressed fire.

Megatron angled his helm at the Autobot leader, a predatory smile spreading across his faceplates. “Welcome, Prime.”

Prime stared down at him, optics hard and expression inscrutable. “Megatron.”

The warlord chuckled, leaning back against the wall. “I was expecting you sooner.”

“I had nothing to say to you.” Prime replied.

“No?” Megatron asked, tilting his helm as though in surprise, “How inhospitable, Prime.”

The Autobot leader narrowed his optics. “You have no cause to complain about mistreatment.”

He chuckled at the fissure of tension in the Autobot’s voice. Prime had always been easy to rile.

“To what do I owe the honor of your company?” He asked instead, “Have you missed me, perhaps? Your soldiers will gossip.”

Prime did not reply immediately. The room was silent except for the sound of their inner workings, loud in the darkness. When at last he spoke, his voice was cold and authoritative.

“I have found you guilty of war crimes, treason, and sedition.” He rumbled, “Your sentence is to be carried out immediately.”

Megatron stared at the Autobot leader, torn between surprise, anger, and grim resignation. He had not thought the pacifist had it in him.

“What of the justice you so admire?” He asked, genuinely curious to know the answer, “You did not give me the opportunity to present my defense.”

Optimus rumbled quietly. “There will be no trial. I sentence you on my authority as Prime.”

Megatron laughed, long and low. The sound of it echoed around the empty room. “So, we have come full circle at last. The Prime has taken justice into his own hands, regardless of the rule of the law or the will of the people. I suppose it was inevitable.”

The Autobot leader stood unflinchingly in the face of Megatron’s derision.

“I see no value in giving your cause a platform, Megatron. You and your armies have been defeated.” Prime replied, “The sooner your rebellion is forgotten, the better it will be for our people.”

Megatron narrowed his optics in anger, growling, “You do not get to decide what is best for _our people_.”

“I do.” Prime replied, “And I have.”

Megatron’s fuel pump pistoned inside his chassis, spurred by rage and failure and disappointment. He raised his helm, looking the Autobot leader in the face. “Will you execute me yourself? Or is it beneath the dignity of a Prime to kill a prisoner?”

Prime did not reply immediately. He half-turned, his faceplates tightening minutely. It gave him a conflicted air, as though he were wrestling with himself. Megatron noted the tension with no small degree of interest.

“You will not be executed.” Prime rumbled in reply, “Your sentence will be carried out in stasis-lock.”

Megatron was surprised, although he supposed he should not be. This was Optimus Prime, after all. The Autobot leader liked for nothing better than to present himself as a paragon of virtue _._

“Stasis-lock.” He rumbled in reply, “For how long?”

The Autobot leader turned to face him once again, his optics hardening with resolve. “For as long as it takes.”

Megatron narrowed his optics, considering every angle, every possible outcome, every way to twist the situation to his advantage. Death was a permanent failure—imprisonment was not. His will was immutable, a universal constant like gravity or the speed of light. He would rise again.

Prime stared at him, solemn and reserved. “The memory of you and your rebellion will disappear, forgotten to the ravages of time. I will ensure it.”

A slow, predatory smile spread across Megatron’s face. “You will never forget me, Prime. I will be with you, always.”

The Autobot leader inclined his helm, as though in valediction, before turning to leave. Megatron was incensed by the casual dismissal. He leaned forward, calling after him. “I regret nothing. I would kill every mechanoid again, and a thousand times more, to avenge his death.”

Prime stopped in mid-step, his servos curling into fists. He half-turned to regard Megatron over his shoulder. “Orion Pax did not die. He lives, transformed, just as Megatronus was transformed.” 

Megatron laughed, low and derisive. “He is dead to me.”

A shadow of emotion crossed Prime’s face, deep and raw and pained.

“He would mourn to know it.” He replied, quietly.

Megatron ignored the words, and the undercurrent of grief he could hear within them. Instead, he raised his chin and pinned the Autobot leader with a contemptuous look. “Do not speak to me of my bonded’s mind. I know it better than you, Prime.”

Optimus shuttered his optics, and when he opened them again, his expression was devoid of emotion. He turned around, striding across the hangar with his head up and shoulders squared. Megatron watched him go in silence. The door slid open as he approached, revealing two medical builds standing in the corridor. The Autobot leader nodded to them tersely, but he did not stop. He continued walking down the corridor without a backwards glance until he was gone a moment later. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** Yeah, you read that right! Orion Pax and Megatronus were indeed spark-bonded before the Great War. Their bond has been hinted at throughout the series, even back as far as Signature. For an overview of the hints I’ve dropped, please see my reply to Sasha300’s comment on this chapter.
> 
> Thank-you again for joining me on this journey! Up next: Refuge!


End file.
